


Saudade

by mudkippy



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU - Bilbo stays in Erebor, Angst, Aromantic, Aromantic Dís, Death, Depression, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everything is canon except that one fact, F/M, Fade to Black, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Suicidal Thoughts, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2018-04-25 23:34:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4981075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mudkippy/pseuds/mudkippy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the Battle of the Five Armies, Erebor is ruled not by a king, but by an increasingly fractious council. Dís returns to her birthplace at Balin’s behest to choose the next king, and, although she has disinherited herself, she has an increasingly personal stake in the outcome.<br/>An AU where Bilbo stays in Erebor and becomes its steward, and it only becomes more complicated from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vilelithe (BroPorrim)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BroPorrim/gifts).



> Happy birth, vilelithe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dís unwillingly returns to a rebuilding Erebor for the first time in nearly two hundred years.

Dís had no memories of the childhood she had spent in Erebor. Its famed beauty had instead been related to her in stories the older Dwarves had told as they huddled around the dying forges late at night. They had sketched out a red peak piercing the highest clouds and a river of pure silver thundering from its heights, framing a solid mithril gate guarded by statues bigger than the Argonath.

She had had no reason to doubt her own family, nor question how their tales had grown in the telling by the time they were related to Fíli and Kíli. Yet, as she took in the roughly-hewn mountain before her with the muddy stream gurgling from its base, she felt as if her sons had been cheated. It was for Thorin’s promises that they had followed him, and for his fantasies that they had give their lives, all for an unimpressive hunk of granite Eru had unceremoniously dumped atop the Celduin.

Dís’ hands clenched around the reins in her hand, but no tears escaped her eyes. She knew she should not blame Thorin for his embellishments; decades of harrowing exile must have made Erebor’s largesse wax in the imaginings of a prince who had to hammer out horseshoes for a mere pittance.

She hated him all the same.

Balin had told her their first priority had been to rebuild the gate. It was the first — and in many cases, only — thing that outsiders would see of the great delving within and it served as an important reminder of Dwarven strength and skill. He and the steward had done a masterful job: it was enormous, wide enough to march a battalion through. It would have been indistinguishable from the surrounding rock had it not been carved with the anvil and hammer of Durin, surmounted by seven stars, and framed by a motif of ravens picked out in mithril. In this, at least, she had been properly impressed.

Dís drew her pony to a halt a few yards short of the gates, shielding her eyes to look up at the walk above.

“Who goes there?” a voice shouted down.

“Her Highness Dís of the Line of Durin, Lady of the Blue Mountains and Princess of Erebor!” her escort shouted back.

“Be welcome!” the voice said, and, although he said it with genuine warmth, Dís could not help but hear it as a warning. _Be welcome!_ he said. _Share in our bounties and do not burden us with your grief._

The gates swung out silently. Dís urged her mount into the front hall. This, too, had been repaired expertly, but an experienced eye could see patched stonework and newly laid gemstones. Curiously, a thin, irregular layer of gold covered the floor.

The doors at the other end opened and Balin emerged, flanked by Dwalin.

“At your service, Dís,” Balin said, sweeping into a bow.

“Is this all you came with?” Dwalin asked when he saw her meager party. “There are still wargs in these forests.”

“We traveled at haste and avoided anything we could not fight,” she said, dismounting. “And I do not intend to stay long.” Both of her cousins were gaunter than she remembered, with fresh lines upon their brows and around their eyes. Dwalin had three new tattoos across the bridge of his nose: one for Thorin, one for Kíli, and one for Fíli. Dís had to look away. “It seems the repairs have proceeded apace.”

“We have more than enough coin for it,” Balin said. “The trouble was moving enough talented Dwarves back to Erebor so they could begin the work, but that’s not a problem anymore. We still have dozens of Dwarves arriving every month, some from as far away as Orocarni.”

“Parasites,” she hissed. “Their kings refused us so much as a copper coin after we moved to Ered Luin, even as they sent us missives inscribed on gold tablets. None of _them_ came to our aid in the Battle of the Five Armies. Why do we welcome them with open arms?”

“My question exactly,” Dwalin grumbled.

“This is a fortress of Dwarves,” Balin said carefully. “Not of Durin’s folk. Many of us lived in harmony before the fall and the steward does not see a reason why it can’t happen again.”

Dís vowed to have words this Hobbit steward before she returned to Ered Luin. “Enough pleasantries. Why have you called me here?”

“The ruling council has a matter that requires your arbitration,” Balin said. “I’ve sworn to let them tell you.”

“Do you know what it is?”

Balin met her gaze. “Aye, I do.”

She handed the reins off to her escort, smoothed down her black tunic, and said, “Where are they? I must see them before anything else.”

“I’ll take you,” Dwalin said.

“The council meets in twenty minutes,” Balin warned.

“More than enough time,” Dís said. “Lead on, cousin.”

They left Balin and headed deeper into the mountain. The doors set into the opposite wall opened up to a long hallway, which fed into an enormous chamber lit by hundreds of torches. Walkways crisscrossed the distance for hundreds of feet above and below, and chips of mica sparkled in the rough walls. The clamor of miners welled up from the depths, and the murmur of voices echoed throughout. Resplendently dressed Dwarves glided past arched windows set high in the mountain’s flanks, mixing easily with the soot-stained smiths who wheeled or carried their latest creations from forge to forge. In that far distance, Dís even heard the cries of babes.

This had been the Erebor that Thorin had spoken of.

“You never wrote,” Dís said to Dwalin.

“Letters don’t stay in their proper place when I look at them,” Dwalin said. “What did you want me to say anyway?”

“To regurgitate the usual platitudes,” Dís said. “To tell me yet again the great feats done at the Battle of the Five Armies, and of how my brother and my sons died nobly.”

“Never knew you to ask for pity,” Dwalin said suspiciously.

“I was joking,” she said. “Thank you for not doing so.”

They rounded the corner and Dís’ breath caught in her chest. They were no longer in the living quarters, but skirting the edge of a vast room filled entirely with gold. Three years of constant construction and reparations had surely shrunk the great treasure hoard of Thrór, but she could not imagine what it must have looked like at its height. It stretched as far as she could see — an endless yellow sea glistening coldly under the flickering torches.

_So this my legacy. This is what I have been left in place of a family._

The realization soured her awe and she kept walking.

Dwalin, too, seemed disinterested in the treasure, but his focus was on her face.

“You brought me here on purpose,” Dís said without breaking her stride.

“I had to know.”

“I am not my brother.”

“Thorin said he was not his grandfather.”

“I’m insulted that you would think me so weak,” Dís snapped. “This gold means nothing to me beyond its market value and anyone who thinks otherwise ought to stand in my boots for a week.” She rounded on him. “I have lost _everything_ because of the contents of this room and you still think I could—”

“I meant nothing by it,” Dwalin said, putting an hand on her shoulder. “I just needed to know.”

After a moment, Dís put her hand atop his. “I know.”

They exited the treasure room and went back the way they had come. Dís expected him to guide her to the catacombs, but they only descended four levels below the ground before stopping at a nondescript door.

“Leave me,” Dís said, pushing it open. “I will return in a moment.”

The rectangular room was surprisingly bare for the tomb of a king and two princes. Pillars of white marble supported a low, flat roof of black granite inlaid with scrolls of silver. The wall to her far left held three graves, but she could not look at them yet. The other walls had been inscribed with runes speaking of the lives the dead had lived, from their births to their deaths. Thorin’s filled an entire wall. Fíli and Kíli’s were painfully short and she could not bring herself to read their ends.

Steeling herself, she approached the graves. They were made of the same black granite as the ceiling, and devoid of any ornamentation save the carvings on their lids. The left bore the effigy of two Dwarves, the one on the right bearing one. She hesitated between them, then looked down on the single tomb. There, forever preserved in stone, was the face of her oldest brother. His eyes were closed, his face at the peace Dís had only ever seen in him while he slept. In life, Thorin Oakenshield had burned — with pride, with hate, with love, with loss. He had never done anything by halves.

Dís traced the braid of Durin’s heir that hung over one ear, her fingers trailing down to the short beard covering his strong jaw. Had he started growing it after Smaug’s death? Had it been incrementally longer when he died, a symbol of his hope even as it was matted with his life’s blood?

She tilted her chin up, her eyes burning with unshed tears as she gazed at last upon the grave bearing the bodies of her sons. They had been carved lying next to one another, with their hands joined and Kíli’s head tucked against Fíli’s shoulder. Dís laid a trembling palm upon Kíli’s cold stone one, which clutched the promise stone she had given him upon departing.

“ _Come back to me,_ ” she whispered, reading the Cirth she had carved upon it years ago. “ _Come back to me._ ”

But her sons’ faces were still and cold, and no matter how much she called, they would never wake and leap once more into her arms.

She had lost everyone else; why did her sons have to die as well? Why was she the last Durin? Why couldn’t that burden have been bourn by someone stronger, or more lighthearted, or just _someone_ other than her?

Why had she been left behind? 

“It’s your fault,” she hissed at Thorin’s grave. “It’s _your_ fault! You led them to their deaths!” She punched his stone arm. “You and your _stupid_ dreams! They were children, Thorin! My! Children!” She kicked the plinth viciously. “You took them from me! You left me alone!”

The door swung open and Dís froze mid-punch, her bloody knuckles ready to deliver another blow. She had expected Dwalin. She could explain this to Dwalin. But instead it was a mousey-haired creature, an adult too small to be a Dwarf, with enormous feet, pointed ears, and a bouquet held in one hand.

He took a step back, his expression almost comically surprised, before appearing to decide there was no way for either of them to pretend this had not happened. “Bilbo Baggins, at your service.”

Dís shook her hair out of her face and said, in her calmest voice, “Dís, at yours.”

“Well, ah.” He coughed and ducked his head. “Good morning.”

“What are you doing here?” Dís asked coldly.

“Paying my respects,” the halfling said, indicating the flowers.

“We do not adorn our graves with living things.”

“I know,” the halfling said. “But it’s something that we Hobbits do and I don’t think I’m harming anyone in the process.”

Dís laughed hollowly. “How can you rule over thousands of Khazâd without any respect for our ways?”

The halfling bowed. “I offer my deepest condolences for offending you, Lady Dís. I won’t do it again.”

“What’s going on?” Dwalin asked, poking his head in.

“I have had my fill of condolences and apologies and sympathy,” Dís spat, stepping forward. “I am banning him from the tomb.”

“Now wait a moment,” Dwalin said. “He has every right—”

“He has _no_ right, no _claim_ , over the—”

“It’s not sympathy,” the halfling said. He met her eyes and she saw her boundless sorrow reflected back at her. “It’s empathy.”

Dís’ anger faded into shame. Of course he would know her grief; he had shared in their travails as much as anyone else in the company. Yet, despite her embarrassment, she resented that their first meeting had let him see her at a moment of weakness.

“As you were,” Dís said coolly, stalking out of the tomb.

Behind her, Dwalin lengthened his stride to catch up. “What was that?”

“It is of no consequence,” Dís said. “The halfling and I will likely forget the encounter altogether.”

“His name is Bilbo,” Dwalin said. “He is Steward of Erebor and my friend, and you will not speak to him so rudely.”

“He woke Smaug,” Dís snapped. “He also gave the Arkenstone to _Thranduil_ , so it seems that he has caused more strife than he has stopped.”

“Without Bilbo, we would never have come far enough to worry about those things,” Dwalin retorted. “I’ll not have you speak ill of him.”

“I see your loyalties have changed,” Dís said, her jaw twitching in vexation.

“It’s what Thorin would have wanted.”

Dís hugged the next corner, purposely shouldering her cousin. “I care not what Thorin wanted; he is dead.”

“Fíli and Kíli were fond of him as well.”

Dís should have reminded Dwalin that her sons would befriend a brick wall if they could, but she could not bring herself to speak of them. “This way to the council room?”

“Aye.” Dwalin ripped the hem off his shirt. “For your hands.”

She did not care about her bleeding knuckles, but she did not want to strike the council as melodramatic. She wrapped her hands as she would for a sparring match, so that only her fingers were bare.

Dwalin led her away from the habitable parts of Erebor and into its empty northwestern corner. For many minutes, the only sound was that of their footsteps as they echoed off cavernous halls and piles of rubble. She could see in the darkness as well as daylight and she knew that nothing lurked in the shadows, but she still found its silence eerie.

Dwalin stopped at a blank stretch of wall and said, “ _Mamarulkâminkhamar_.”

The shape of a door appeared, faintly outlined against the blank stretch of stone. Dwalin pushed it and they were immediately struck with a wall of sound.

The council was quarreling.

Many Dwarves were on their feet, gesticulating wildly at their foes, their beards fluffed about their reddened faces like angry cats. Some even stood on the table or on chairs to better shout down at the others.

“This is normal,” Dwalin informed her dryly.

“Pitiful,” Dís muttered.

Upon seeing them, Balin paused mid-sentence and exclaimed, “Dís! How nice of you to join us.”

The other Dwarves froze, some in ridiculous positions. Then they all bowed as one, intoning, “At your service.”

Balin hopped down from his chair and took his place to the left of the table’s head. He indicated Dís should sit to the right, and everyone else took their places.

Dís recognized few of the Dwarves present. She knew her third cousins — Balin, Dwalin, Glóin, and Oin — very well, and she knew the scribe, Ori, by sight. She also knew Enokur, Hemung, and Kárunn — Broadbeam smiths and miners from Ered Luin. A trio of Blacklocks, the same amount of Firebeards, a Stiffbeard, two Stonefoots, and an Ironfist filled out the remainder of their number.

It rankled her to see other lineages so generously represented in a Longbeard fastness and her animosity towards the halfling only increased for allowing it to happen.

As if she had summoned him, he appeared. His eyes were slightly red, but he was otherwise composed as he took the chair at the head of the table. From her vantage point, Dís could see the pillows he had placed on the seat for a few additional inches.

“Well met,” the halfling said, and received a few grunts in reply. Ori passed him a sheaf of papers, which he flicked through with practiced ease. “The repairs to the Twenty-third and Thirty-first Halls will be completed long before expected, if these reports are correct. The Stonefoots will be able to move in within the month.”

“I appreciate your haste, Master Baggins,” the dark-skinned Stonefoot said.

“As I appreciate the fruits you’ve planted in my greenhouse, Master Ímundur” the halfling said. “Dates and persimmons, were they? Absolutely wonderful.” Most of the table laughed, as if this was some shared joke between them. The halfling picked up another paper. “Hmm. It seems our rye crop isn’t what it was last year.”

“It’s because those Blacklocks — those _’abanjabâl_ — are tending them,” Enokur snapped. “They don’t know a seed from a pebble.”

“It astounds me that anything came up at all,” a Blacklock shot back. “Your soil is more rock than dirt.”

“Good!” the Ironfist exclaimed. “We were made to delve into stone, not to toil in the mud like Men. All _Khazâd_ know this.”

Dís’ ire rose, but she kept her silence. She had forsworn politics.

“We have agreed never to be in a position where we would sell our heirlooms just to keep the meanest of meals in our bellies,” Glóin said, to Dís’ approval. “That means some of us should learn to farm, in case the worst should happen again.”

“We have heard _enough_ of your exile,” the Ironfist said, slamming his ringed hand onto the granite table. “You Longbeards were swift to brag and slow to aid during _your_ years of prosperity. Clearly, your exile has taught you nothing of humility.”

“Your experiences — whether they were as harrowing as you said they were or not — will not reshape the very fundamentals of Dwarvendom,” the Stiffbeard said. “You are but one clan among seven and you barely hold the majority within the mountain. We agreed when this council was first convened that—”

“—that we would do whatever it took to help Erebor regain its feet,” Bilbo said, leaping into the argument. “The summer after we began farming, our imports have dropped by half.”

The Stiffbeard sighed. “Master Baggins, I respect all that you have done for us, but please, do not concern yourself with matters of our very identity.”

“He has no clan; he ought to have no voice.” The Firebeard Dwarrowdam stroked her luxuriously plaited beard, apparently unaware that Dwalin appeared ready to cut it off at the chin. “A Dwarf steward for a Dwarf stronghold, I say.”

The halfling sat back in his seat and folded his hands over his comfortable stomach with a sharp smile. “You are free to vote me out. I may have made this council, but I can’t hold myself above it.”

The Firebeard glanced uneasily about the table, lingering in particular on the furious Longbeards, the Broadbeams, and the Stonefoots. “…There are other matters at hand.”

Dís did not know how much longer she would be able to hold her tongue if this line of discussion continued; she seized her chance. “For example, the reason I have come all the way from Ered Luin only to hear you bicker like children.”

The halfling cleared his throat as if to speak, but then deferred to Balin.

“Since the deaths of Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli,” Balin said, with a small catch in his voice, “we have been unable to appoint a King Under the Mountain.”

“I have already made my intentions clear,” Dís said coldly. Why had they summoned her to do in person what she could have told them by raven?

“I would never ask you to break your vow,” Balin said. “I — we, the council — merely would like your assistance in choosing.”

Dís debated her next words, knowing the impact they could have. Then she decided to eschew politeness; she had not come from Ered Luin to mince words. “I refuse. No single Dwarf should be made King Under the Mountain.”

Her proclamation was met with cries of outrage, even from the Broadbeams she had befriended during her exile.

“We have always had kings,” Enokur said, “in an unbroken line from our very founders. Would you deny the governance Mahal has granted us?”

“I would, to save us from falling into greater disgrace,” Dís said. “The last two Kings Under the Mountain were mad with dragon sickness — Thrór for decades, Thorin for perhaps mere days. But in both cases, caused only chaos and death.” Her fingers reflexively stroked her clipped beard. “I would not have a tainted mind rule Erebor once more.”

Shocked silence met her announcement.

“Thorin died free of the gold’s influence,” the halfling piped up. “Even if you appointed a king, it is possible to—”

“Enough of Thorin,” Dís said, and he fell back into his seat, his brow knit with concern.

“Well, we can’t well have a council for the rest of our lives, either,” Oin pointed out. “You’ve just seen us try to work.”

“Then where is Prince Dáin?” Dís asked. “After me, he is the heir to the Line of Durin.”

“As you have, he has expressed no interest in ruling Erebor, save at greatest need. His heart lies in the Iron Hills, as does that of his son,” Balin said.

“This is our greatest need,” Dís said.

“He told me he would not seek the throne until we failed to provide a suitable candidate and he spoke directly to you,” Balin explained. “I sent him a raven when I heard you had passed through Mirkwood. He is dealing with a trade dispute near the Sea of Rhûn and will not arrive for a month yet.”

She stood up, making sure her warhammer fell properly back into the loop on her belt. “Then in one month, I will convince Prince Dáin to formally renounce his claim to Erebor’s throne.” Some of the Dwarves even looked murderous. “In the meantime, I expect you to cobble together a successful government that prevent our tragic history from repeating itself. Is there anything else that requires my attention?”

The members of the council yet conscious shook their heads. The halfling looked her over, half with worry and half with disapproval, and said, “There is not, my lady.”

“Then I bid you good day,” she said, and exited to the sounds of another furious argument.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dwalin is dyslexic.
> 
>  **Translations**  
>  _’Abanjabâl_ — stone heads (insult)  
>  _Mamarulkâminkhamar_ — umber brown  
> 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dís joins the company an evening of remembrance, accompanied by some excellent food.

That evening, Balin invited her to dinner. It was common practice, he explained, for the surviving members of Thorin’s company to feast together. He had admitted it had originated as an excuse to drown their sorrows, but in these better and busier days, it was mostly to catch up on each others’ lives.

Dís considered declining, but when the bell struck the hour, she found herself waiting by the door, fidgeting like an anxious child. She wanted to see her family and friends again, but she knew she did not belong here; she was unable to feign joy and no one else’s evenings should suffer because of it.

For the fourth or fifth time, she stepped back, intending to leave, but this time she accidentally trod on the feet of someone close behind her.

“Whoa there!” the Dwarf exclaimed, jumping back. Dís turned to apologize and found her victim to be a Dwarf of middling years, with a handlebar mustache and two pigtails jutting out from under a shabby hat.

“I was leaving,” Dís said.

“Well, not until I’ve properly introduced myself.” He sketched an elaborate bow. “Bofur, at your service.”

Dís had known the Ur brothers by reputation more than appearance, and their last minute addition to the company had surprised Thorin greatly. “Dís, at yours.”

“Were you coming to sup with us?” Bofur asked.

“No.”

Bofur blocked her way, put an arm around her, and said, “But you’re all dressed up already! And my brother, Bombur, has made his best cobbler; it would be a shame to miss it…”

And he ushered her into the room.

It was as noisy as the council room had been, but its timbre was of good-natured raillery instead of tired squabbling. Most of the company was already seated at the long table in the center of the room and tearing into a bountiful feast. Perhaps the kings of Men would not call it such, but for a recovering kingdom this far north, it was sumptuous indeed.

As she watched, Ori stood up in his chair and yelled, “Bombur, catch!”

Unfortunately, the scribe’s aim was not nearly as good as his penmanship — especially with the empty flagon in front of him — and the chunk of cheese struck Bombur’s face. The company seemed not to care, as they exploded into laughter. Even Balin’s face reddened as he held back his mirth.

Dís was surprised to see the halfling in the thick of it. He ate with more decorum than his fellows, but joined in their conversations without abandon, and tolerated their occasionally ribald jokes with only the faintest traces of exasperation.

“Started without us, did you?” Bofur demanded, sliding into a chair to Bifur’s left.

“We had to,” Nori said. “You drag your feet like an old Dwarrowdam making a deal.”

Deprived of her escort, Dís hung back. But she was a princess of the Line of Durin, and she would not be intimidated by a boisterous crowd.

They quieted as she entered, head high. She felt their eyes more keenly upon her than she had the council’s, and she was unsure as to why. Perhaps it was because they knew her not as the Princess Dís, but as the mother and sister to their fallen friends, and, because of that, she was representing their memories instead of her lineage.

The only open seat was beside the halfling and she took it without meeting his eyes. She pushed a small portion of the chicken potpie onto her plate and picked up her fork to eat. Conscious of the stares still fixated on her, she set it down and said, a little waspishly, “Do not stop on my account.”

Slowly, the conversation returned to its original volume. The company, evidently unsure as to what to do in her presence, ignored her. She did not mind, as she was afforded the peace in which to eat. The potpie was excellent, and it was not long before she was reaching for more.

“Old family recipe,” the halfling said from her side.

“What?” Dís asked.

“That potpie recipe has been passed down through five generations of Bagginses,” he said. “Lobelia thought she would get her mitts on it after I left, but I had a raven snatch it out of my smial before she had the chance.”

He was strangely proud of this victory, and Dís was too concerned with filling her stomach to point out the pettiness of it.

“Try the blackberry cobbler next,” he said, heaping some onto her plate. “Bombur mixed it with the persimmons the Blacklocks brought. It’s _heavenly_.”

Dís prickled at the presumptuousness of his gesture and, as a result, did not tell him that he had been absolutely right.

He seemed to know anyway. “I’d made a similar cobbler the night _this lot_ showed up!” He raised his voice slightly at the end, and was met with lifted flagons and an enthusiastic slap on the back from Bofur, who sat to his left. “For myself, of course, since Gandalf hadn’t thought to warn me.” He smiled, lost in the memory. “Kíli nearly inhaled it.”

Her fork clattered to the plate and she swiftly scooped it up again. She would not appear weak again. “Did he?”

The halfling flinched. “My apologies.”

“It has been more than two years,” she said, stabbing her pie a little too forcefully. “I can speak of them, Master Hobbit.” She caught Dwalin’s glare and corrected, “Master Baggins.”

“No worries,” the halfling said, and left her alone after that.

Dís spent the rest of dinner listening to Glóin brag about his son, and Bifur and Bofur to brag even louder about their litter of niblings by Bombur. All of them were nearly out-shouted by Dori, who was immensely proud of Ori officially becoming the royal scribe.

The conversation occasionally drifted to other topics — memories of the quest were prominent among them, and Dís hearkened with a hungry ear. Every time they would mention Thorin or Fíli or Kíli, though, their eyes would stray to hers, and they would not say their names more than necessary. There was other talk of guild disputes, complaints levied at King Thranduil and King Bard, and the pack of wargs roaming the mountains, but those were not nearly as interesting.

As the dishes were cleared away, the company filled their flagons one last time and simultaneously raised them, with an air of ritual. Dís raised her a moment later.

“To Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli,” Balin said, and they drank deeply, Dwalin draining his in one gulp. Dís only took a sip before her stomach churned uncomfortably.

The company retired to the fireplace and pulled out their pipes. Many of them still smoked the acrid leaf common among poor Men in Ered Luin, but a few packed their bowls with a sweeter mixture.

Dori approached her where she hovered on the edge of the firelight and offered her his pouch. “Would you like some Longbottom Leaf, Lady Dís? Master Baggins brought it out of the Shire and may Durin strike me down if there is a better tobacco in all of Arda.”

Shrugging, Dís tamped a pinch into her pipe and lit it. She had to agree with Dori’s opinion, even though the smoke was so rich that she nearly coughed on the inhale.

She heard Kíli’s name and her head jerked up immediately.

“…when Kíli fell asleep in the tree,” Oin was saying from where he leaned against the mantel. “Ah, we looked for hours for that lad.”

“Thorin was frantic,” Nori said, nodding. He deepened his voice into a rough approximation of Thorin’s. “ _‘He can’t have gone far! Look for tracks!’_ ”

The halfling smiled. “And that was one of the mornings Gandalf had left us… Was he cursing the wizard when he went off in Khuzdûl for a bit?”

“It’s a good thing Kíli was asleep!” Glóin said. “Those weren’t words I would let my son hear.”

“Fortunately, Bilbo had ears keen enough to hear the laddie snoring,” Balin said with a chuckle. “Else we might have lost another four hours in that accursed swamp.”

“And then Kíli had the sense to act as if nothing had happened, even with his uncle glaring daggers at him,” Dwalin rumbled. “He was irrepressible, Kíli was.”

Dís could picture the scene easily: all fourteen of them camped around a tree with low-slung branches, their ponies peacefully cropping grass as Thorin stormed from one end of camp to another, fear burning in his eyes, with half the company trailing behind, offering theories and conjecture. The other half stood on the edge, shouting Kíli’s name into the morning fog. Perhaps Master Baggins fretted by the ponies, unsure of how to respond. Meanwhile, Kíli slumbered on right above their heads, mouth open and drooling, oblivious to the chaos below.

“Where was Fíli in all of this?” she asked. The company collectively flinched, as if they had forgotten she was there.

“Right behind Thorin, in word and deed,” Glóin murmured. “Always was.”

Dís nodded in satisfaction as Fíli slotted neatly into her imagination, although he had hopefully not used curses as vile as Thorin’s.

The company’s expressions shifted from wary to horrified, and Dís touched her cheek, surprised to find them wet with tears.

“Thank you,” she said. “I will turn in for the night.”

“I don’t believe anyone has shown you where you’re staying,” Bilbo said, rising to his feet. “I’ll accompany you.”

Dís made a silent appeal to Dwalin, but he made a small chivvying motion with one hand. “Very well.”

Dís turned for the door, hastily wiping her cheeks. She had not wept in years; she had thought herself utterly spent. But, in retrospect, her tears had ended near the same time the last of the Longbeards had left for Erebor. Maybe she had stopped crying merely because there had been no one with which to share her grief.

“I’m glad that you do this,” Dís said to the halfling as they walked down the hallway. “That you keep their memories alive.”

“They deserve to be known as more than great heroes of legend,” the halfling said. He exhaled gustily and Dís knew he was masking tears of his own. “As real Dwarves, who did things like fall asleep in trees and delay us for half the day.”

Dís hated how much she concurred with the halfling, both now and previously in the council room. While she had sworn to despise him, she felt herself unbending a tiny bit. It was possible to loath his character him while simultaneously respecting his deeds, was it not?

“I thought you were Thorin, for a moment,” Bilbo blurted. “When I saw you in the tomb today. It was a stupid thought, and really quite impossible, but there you have it.” He sniffed loudly. “Balin and I thought it would be wise not to give you the old royal quarters.”

“Good,” Dís said. “I would have refused them.”

“We rebuilt the guest wing first,” Bilbo said. They crossed a gap and Dís did not miss the apprehensive look he cast the void. “The rooms were all connected to the only functioning furnace, after all, and the plumbing hadn’t rusted through. Some of the rooms were big enough to hold four or five families, and we needed that. Four hundred Dwarves from the Iron Hills had come over before Yule alone. The first year was—” He shuddered “—but we managed.”

“You are very involved in Erebor’s affairs,” Dís observed.

“It’s my business to be meddlesome,” Baggins said. “Else I would be a poor steward indeed! At home, I was a _confirmed bachelor_ with a fair sum laid by, so I had all the time in the world on my hands. Everyone called me to arrange their parties and cook their food and settle their disputes; it was a surprisingly easy transition to managing Erebor.”

“Erebor is not one of your tea parties,” Dís said coldly, and the halfling’s missed step indicated she had made her point. “Why didn’t you return to the Shire?”

“I was needed,” Baggins said, and he said no more until they reached a set of nondescript oak doors. “I was wondering if I could take you the gardens for breakfast tomorrow.”

Dís paused, her hand on the door. She searched the hobbit’s face and found nothing except polite expectation — although she wasn’t sure what she had been looking for to begin with. Disdain, perhaps, or masked hostility. She had only been rude to him thus far, and he had no reason to lose a morning accompanying her. “My time here is limited.”

“The council does not meet again until noon.”

“I am finished with them until Dáin arrives.”

The halfling favored her with a wry smile. “As if you could be _done_ after an exit like that! No, everyone wants you back, for one reason or another, and they’ll hound you mercilessly until you return, with no consideration for your privacy.”

“Including yourself?” Dís asked.

“Of course,” he said. “It’s rather nice not to be the most reviled person in the room. Anyway, you don’t want to be facing them — or running from them, if you want — on an empty stomach.”

Dís had heard much of the halfling’s involvement with the quest and his close relationship with her family. At the very least, she might winkle a story or two from him. “I acquiesce,” she said, bowing her head gravely.

Baggins beamed and hastily bowed back. “Oh, excellent. I’ll swing by at around midmorning, shall I?”

“Yes,” Dís said. “Good evening, Master Baggins.”

“And you, Lady Dís.”

Dís watched him depart, unable to dispel the feeling she had been played by his polite smiles and blunted commands. If Baggins wanted a fight, she would prove herself a worthy opponent.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dís inspects the gardens with Bilbo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific trigger warning for thoughts of death (but not suicide).

It was scarcely after sunrise when the halfling knocked on her door.

Dís jerked the door open wearing only her robe, her hair curling loosely around her shoulders. “Is this what you call _midmorning?_ ” The halfling blushed. Dís glanced down, belted her robe, and demanded, “Well?” 

“It is halfway between second breakfast and elevensies,” the halfling said, now examining his stubby nails. “Did I interrupt something?”

She growled a negative. “Let me dress.”

She did not bother closing the door; it was much too early for anyone but the most dedicated smiths to be awake, and she did not care if the halfling saw her naked. It might even put some hair on his chest.

Dís slipped on an unadorned black tunic and coupled it with sturdy boots, steel knuckle dusters, and a plain cloak to ward off the autumnal chill. Then she ran a hand over her beard, searching for stragglers. Her fingers instinctively paused where she had worn her beads, even though her beard was now much too short for any ornamentation.

Lastly, she belted on her warhammer and knives, and plaited her braids: two thin ones in the back for her children and and a thicker one looping her skull like a crown for her skill in weapons smithing. Her remaining hair was tied back into a simple bun.

Her entire ritual took less than a quarter-hour, and before long she was back at the door, now ready to face the day’s trials. The halfling, by contrast, seemed underdressed in his simple, garishly colored clothing and his unkempt hair. He did not even wear mail. Something sparkled at his throat, but he adjusted his collar so it disappeared from view.

“Shall we go?” she asked.

“Of course,” he said, offering his arm. She walked ahead of him, her attention focused on the intricate stonework framing the door lintels and torch brackets. It was of a skill she had never seen: precise, but blending near-seamlessly the smooth walls. There were tapestries as well, but they were of lesser quality than the carvings: likely churned out to help Erebor’s drafty halls retain heat.

The mountain was beginning to awaken and, within minutes of their setting out, they often crossed paths with other Dwarves. Many took in her black clothes and beard, and immediately averted their eyes. However, they nodded or even smiled at Bilbo, who reciprocated with equal enthusiasm. It seemed that he was better loved than the council had made him appear.

“We’re turning this way,” the halfling said from behind her, puffing slightly with exertion. “And I’m not sure I’ll be able to speak much at this pace!”

_I hope not,_ she thought nastily. Dwalin’s disapproving face swam before her mind’s eye and she reluctantly waited for him to catch up.

“Thank you,” Baggins said. “I haven’t moved this fast since I had an angry dragon on my tail. Now, I decided to bring you to the gardens because they’re new. I’m sure you don’t want a tour of your own ho—”

“I was ten years old when Erebor fell,” Dís said. “I do not remember it.”

“But Erebor fell hundreds of…” The Hobbit trailed off, flustered.

If he had said that before the quest, she would have laughed. It was well-known among the Durin siblings that she had inherited their mother’s famous beauty and the vanity to match. “I am nearly one hundred seventy-five, Master Baggins.” She studied his plump, lightly lined face. “You look of similar age.”

“We Hobbits age quicker than Dwarves,” he explained. “I am fifty-four.”

“To think Thorin nearly forbade Kíli from going because he was only eighty-one,” she said, “yet he took a mere babe in arms as his burglar.”

“I am comfortably into my middle years, I’ll have you know,” Baggins said.

She bit back a smile at the indignation mottling his features.

“Master Hobbit!” someone shouted, and Bilbo turned on his heel towards the source. It was an elderly Dwarrowdam, hauling a small, scruffy Dwarf down the corridor by his ear.

“Oh, hullo, Mistress Nái,” Bilbo said. “At your service.”

“And yours, Master Hobbit.” She bowed, kicked the other Dwarf into bowing, and then drew herself up proudly. “I caught this one stealing an apple from my stall. Fifth time this month.”

The young Dwarf sniffled pathetically and said, “My da and I don’t have the coin. I was hungry.”

“How anyone could not have money in this mountain is beyond me,” Nái said, stroking her fur collar. “I was just about to drag him to the courts, but you’ve spared me the trip. How shall I punish him?”

The Dwarf sobbed, catching Dís’ attention. He was young, and his face was covered more by filth and sweat than a beard. His pigtail told her that he was a mining apprentice — tough, dirty work, even in Erebor. “What is your name? When did you arrive?”

“Skafi. Three months ago, from Dunland,” the Dwarf said. “My da’s sought work among Men since Erebor fell. I was hoping to become a toymaker.”

“Everyone has that story,” Nái grouched.

“Report to the toymaker’s guild after tenth bell today,” Dís commanded. “Henceforth, you will be granted a paid apprenticeship within the guild. If you prove lazy or unsuitable, you will return to the mines. Your first earnings from either will repay Mistress Nái for the goods you stole.”

Nái released Skafi’s ear, her expression skeptical. “Who are you to give me these orders?”

Just _Dís_ would serve as an adequate introduction, but this kingdom was hers by right, even if she had little interest in claiming it. She would not present herself as anything less. “I am Dís, Princess Under the Mountain, Lady of the Blue Mountains, and Daughter of Durin.”

Nái and Skafi collapsed into bows. Nái looked up at her, awe in her eyes. “My lady, your presence has been much missed. Many friends from Ered Luin have told me of your firm and just rule in our westernmost kingdom.”

Bilbo pulled Skafi aside and began to speak quietly to him, allowing Dís to move closer to Nái. Even though Bilbo was distracted, Dís switched to Khuzdûl. “Do you mean the steward doing a poor job?” She had to hear this from someone who had not been on the quest.

“He does well, for a Hobbit,” Nái said in the same tongue. “But his council is too fractious to cooperate for much longer and there are rumors that he will be sent away. The council will fall apart in his absence.” She shook her head. “We need a single monarch of the Line of Durin. A Queen, since Prince Dáin seems disinclined.”

“Our last two kings, my kith and kin, were insane,” Dís reminded her, “and their sickness led to much woe.”

“Without disrespecting your pain, my lady, I care not if your family is mad,” said Nái. “Things were done quicker in Thrór’s day — we prospered for nigh on two centuries, until even the Elvenking paid us tribute. We can’t rebuild our kingdom atop a crumbling foundation.”

Dís held her chin high. “No one knows this better than I.”

“Then you would know that your settlement in the Blue Mountains succeeded because you had a single leader,” Nái said.

“Regardless—”

“There is no _regardless_. You are the Heir of Durin. The throne is yours by right.” Nái’s hand brushed Dís’ short beard. Dís flinched away. “And you know the cost of madness. Your grief would be to our benefit, I think.”

Bilbo released Skafi and he sprinted down the hallway in the direction of the toymaker’s guildhall. Before Dís could reply, Nái gave the both of them a parting wave and went in the opposite direction.

“What did she say?” Bilbo asked.

“Nothing of import,” Dís said. “How much farther?”

“Just around this corner…”

Most Dwarf-made doors were invisible to non-Dwarves — their fingers and eyes were not attuned to the faint indications in the rock — but this one had been chiseled out of the wall and decorated with lacquered wood in the shapes of birds and flowers. The door stood slightly ajar and the breeze stirred the hairs around her face.

Bilbo nodded amiably to the two guards on either side as he pushed the door outward. The orange rays of dawn stabbed her eyes and she had to shield them as she could follow.

When her sight had adjusted, she felt as if she had been relocated to the Shire. Terraces of plants cascaded down the mountainside as far as the eye could see, covered in vegetation of every shape and color. There were uniform rows of vegetables like carrots and lettuce, as well as lattices for tomatoes, grapes, and squash. Apple and cherry trees lined the edges of each terrace, their roots sunk into the rock walls.

And wherever there were not plants…

Khuzdûl only had the one word, _nung_ , for flower, and, for her entire life, Dís had thought it adequate to describe such a wide range of plants. Yet it fell horribly short when confronted with the sheer mass of blooms opening up before her. There were flowers of every shape and hue, of every size and arrangement, from pale blue stalks to squat pink blossoms sporting only two petals.

“I started a little garden for myself the spring after we arrived, for personal use,” Bilbo explained. “Then more Dwarves started to show up and there was only so much Bard could send us, or that Thranduil wanted to send us. Bombur and Ori helped me enlarge it that winter, so this is the second year that it’s been this large.” He leaned back, tucking his thumbs into his suspenders. “Some of these seeds are Shire-made — from my own garden, in fact, and then further refined to grow better in the cold. The company was gracious enough to bring some back when they were returning from Ered Luin.” He grinned. “Nori and Ori were the first to go, and they had almost forgotten my request. They rode into Hobbiton in the middle of the night and my gardener chased them off with a hoe for fear they were stealing my prize tomatoes!”

His smile was infectious and, quite against her will, she felt her lips twitching up in response. “That must have been a sight.”

Bilbo nodded. “The gardens feed half the mountain now.”

There was light and love in his eyes when he spoke, and when she saw that, any lingering doubts about his motives behind becoming steward melted away. He was not doing this for power or fame — he genuinely loved his work.

_As Thorin would have,_ she thought. _As Fíli and Kíli would have._

“The flowers are for my own benefit,” the hobbit admitted, ambling down the dirt path. Dís shadowed his footsteps, afraid of unknowingly trampling a bed. “But sometimes they brighten other people’s days as well.”

Bilbo paused at a rosebush and examined the blooms, then cried out with such anguish that Dís freed her warhammer from her belt and struck a ready position, eyes scanning the vegetation for the threat. He glanced up at her morosely and stroked the rose’s yellowish leaves. “The aphids have been at them again, poor dears.”

She lowered her hammer. “I have never heard of that foul scourge.”

“They’re just insects.” He plucked a tiny, green insect off the rose’s stem. “See?”

Dís glared at the aphid stumbling drunkenly around Bilbo’s palm. She was rather offended that he had excited her over a _bug_. “Shall I kill it?”

Bilbo pinched it between his index finger and thumb and flicked its body into the roses. “I’ll have someone rub pepper oil on the stems later.” He straightened swiftly. “This way!”

He led her into the strange glass house on the edge of the terrace. The inside was humid and the plants inside even more exotic than the ones without. She paused to inspect a tree bearing orange fruits as large as her head, and Bilbo asked, “Did you want to hear about the—?”

“I’m hungry.”

They walked out the rear door and back into the crisp autumn air.

This part of the garden had been created separately from the others, with the glass house and several thick bushes concealing it from sight. With the mountain’s sheer face at its back, it was rather cozy. Several small, weather-worn benches rested under vine-covered arbors, and the flowers here were planted with more precision than they had been elsewhere. The center seemed empty until Bilbo bent down to examine the oak sapling planted within. He touched its small leaves with reverent care, and she noticed that, while the other beds had weeds here and there, the tree’s patch of dirt had been assiduously picked clean.

His inspection finished, he made for the wicker basket sitting on one of the benches. “Ah! Elevensies! Or, if you prefer, breakfast.” He threw it open and removed the dishes from the top to reveal toast, eggs, jam, blackberries, and an assortment of pastries. Dís partook gratefully, settling onto the bench as she buttered her toast. The eastern side of the garden was open to the elements and, from her seat, she could see Dale’s red roofs and Long Lake glittering in the late morning sun. Mirkwood was but a smoky smudge on the horizon.

“What Fíli and Kíli think of Erebor?” she asked.

The halfling nearly choked on his toast. “I hope you didn’t accompany me just because you hoped to pry stories from me.”

“The garden is nice,” she said, sucking a blob of jam off one finger, “but my eye is more drawn to glittering gems and metals heated white-hot in forges large enough to house a dragon. Regardless, I expect you’ll answer my questions.”

Something in her expression must have convinced or cowed him, because after a pause, he said, “Everything after Smaug’s death is … painful to remember.”

“Oh, spare me your emotions,” Dís snapped. “Thorin was my eldest brother; not a day went by that I was not at his side. Fíli and Kíli were my sons. How could their loss affect you more than I? If I can suffer to speak of them, so can you.”

“Not all of us are as strong as you.” She let the silence wax between them, until he said, “They were in Laketown when the dragon attacked. They weren’t there to see Thorin fall into madness.” He fiddled with the jam knife. “I can’t tell you … I can’t tell you how they felt, because they ran in the moment I told them Thorin had stopped eating and sleeping, and, after that, there wasn’t time.”

“ _Thorin,_ ” Dís snarled, bunching her tunic in one fist.

“He overcame a sickness that had destroyed his grandfather and who knows how many other great Dwarves,” Bilbo said. “That’s worthy of a song or two, I’ll merit.”

“I envy how you can brush aside the deaths of so many for the sake of praising Thorin’s emotional fortitude,” she said acidly.

“I think we need to remember everything — the good and the bad,” Bilbo said, “and I choose to remember Thorin’s recovery as a … a good thing. He died himself.”

She toyed with the idea of quashing the hobbit’s optimism, but she lacked the anger to follow through. There was only so much that she could force others to suffer. Instead, she took the heat from her voice and said, “As a pigheaded fool.”

Bilbo chuckled. “I have no argument there.”

The silence following was almost companionable and Bilbo seemed to enjoy it. In contrast, Dís was ready to leap from her clothes. She had been unable to discern where the hobbit’s kindness stemmed from and the anticipation of finding out had wound her tightly. Perhaps Baggins’ manners were only a net in which to ensnare her so he might extract favors under the guise of friendship.

Exactly what favors a hobbit of the Shire might ask a disinherited Dwarf princess was still beyond her. Maybe he needed someone to bring back his rutabaga.

“Is the bread bad?” Bilbo asked.

Dís hastily stuffed it in her mouth. “No.”

“You’ve been glaring at it for the last minute.”

“Are hobbits never given to moments of thought?” she demanded. “I should think not, from how your folk bustle about.”

“I could say the same for Dwarves,” Bilbo said with a haughty sniff. “At least hobbits have the excuse of a short life. But I don’t mind — there’s never a dull moment here.”

He said it with such loving exasperation that Dís was reminded of how she used to speak of her sons. She swallowed the lump in her throat and said, “Why is there talk of forcing you to leave? In the eyes of my people, you’re a hero, as much as Dwalin or Balin.”

“Your people aren’t the only ones in the mountain,” Bilbo pointed out.

“I’ve heard you had much to do with that.”

He laughed ruefully. “Yes, I suppose I did. Well, it’s all for the best.”

“Hardly,” Dís said, “and I have much to discuss with you on that subject at a later time.”

Bilbo was surprisingly unperturbed at the notion; he smiled much as he had at the Firebeard dwarrowdam when she had suggested voting him the stewardship. “I look forward to it.”

_So am I,_ she thought, her eyes narrowing.

“Anyway, no one can force me to leave, but they would certainly make me feel very unwelcome until I did. I’ve been told without the office of steward or a clan, it would be difficult to make them stop.” He shrugged. “I’ll leave with Dáin when he arrives to…” He gestured vaguely “…for however it plays out. I’ve wanted to see the Iron Hills for years now. It’ll be better for everyone; after all, I am just a little hobbit in the midst of this big mountain. The only problem will be finding someone to continue all my projects — there’s so much to _do!_ ”

“Not me,” she said immediately.

“Of course not,” Bilbo said, dabbing the corners of his mouth with his napkin. “Even if you were staying, you don’t know a quarter of what’s going on here.”

“But I am a Dwarf,” she said, a touch resentfully, “with much experience in leading. I could learn quickly, if need be.”

“I have no doubt.”

His statement was not made with any inflection, with neither doubt nor hope. Dís’ hand tightened around her hammer’s grip, unsure of where the insult lay. Speaking with the hobbit was like walking on shale — there was no way of knowing where it would break beneath your feet until you stepped on it.

“I fail to see how Thorin liked you,” she said at last. “He was not one for wordplay.”

“Well, maybe I’m not the same hobbit around you that I am — was — around Thorin,” Bilbo retorted, his hands on his hips. “You’re not the same, after all.”

“You have keen eyes, Master Baggins.” Dís leaned back on the bench, crossing one leg over the other and watching him out of the corner of one eye. “Aye, I am not my brother, as I wish I could remind the council here. They expect me to deliver them, to ascend to my house’s throne garbed in my grandfather’s robes with the Arkenstone in one hand and the keys to Khazâd-dûm in the other. Never mind what I want!”

“And what is it?” Bilbo asked. “That you want.”

Her eyes widened. No one had asked her that question before — not before the quest, not after Azanulbizar, not even when they had been eking out a living in the wilds of Dunland. She was a princess; her wishes had never factored into the decisions she had needed to make to keep her people alive.

Nevertheless, the answer came easily to her lips. “Death.”

She had expected the hobbit to vacantly bob his head as if he understood and then vomit up some sentimental nonsense about the inherent value of Eru’s creations. She had not expected him to slump, all animation gone from his features.

“I like to keep busy,” he said quietly.

Dís, struck with sudden empathy, awkwardly patted his shoulder and hoped that he would understand. “I should do that more often, since I will not disgrace my family by going to the halls before my time.”

Their eyes met and the moment passed.

Bilbo sprung into motion, cleaning up their decimated picnic with practiced hands. He suddenly paused in his labors and looked up at her shyly through his thick lashes. “Would you object if I brought flowers to the tomb?”

Dís’ first reaction was to refuse. He had scarcely known her family for six months; what right did he and he alone have to adorn their graves? She quashed the thought before it could roll off her tongue and finally said, “They would not object, were it my tomb, so I will not either.”

Bilbo frowned, as if sifting through her words for a hidden meaning. “Thank you.” He flipped the lid down on the basket and went into the glass house, returning with a pair of shears. Dís watched him putter about the flowerbeds, scrutinizing each bud before he snipped it from the stem. His diligence assuaged some of her residual jealousy.

They left the gardens when the sun reached its zenith. The morning had been chill, but it had quickly warmed when the sun broke free of the clouds. Dís was grateful for Erebor’s cool interior.

She did not look upon the visages graven upon the coffin lids. She had no desire to linger here, transfixed by the tiny creases on Kíli’s hands or the faint smile on Fíli’s lips. Whoever had made their likenesses had been close to them — Balin himself, perhaps.

“I’m glad they were buried together,” Dís said.

Bilbo set his flowers down on Thorin’s tomb. “We thought it would be best.”

A fresh wave of grief squeezed her heart and she had to leave, lest she cry again, and right before the council meeting. The Hobbit may be worthy of seeing her tears, but they were most definitely not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dís knows that she's quoting Thorin when she tells Bilbo he has keen eyes. Imagine, if you will, ten ravens winging their way to Ered Luin, each carrying a thick packet of paper from each surviving member of the company, all describing the quest in excruciating detail. Because that's exactly what happens.
> 
> (And there are ten because, even though Dwalin is dyslexic, he can draw some incredibly compelling stick figures.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matters of succession come to a head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pride goeth before the fall.

The council was utterly silent as Dís and Bilbo entered the high-ceilinged room. Now suspicious, Dís counted heads and found they were several Dwarves short. The main instigators from the previous day — the Firebeard and the Ironfist — were not present. The traditionalist Stiffbeard was, but he was too deeply engrossed in whittling to pay them much heed.

Even as the others filtered in, it remained ominously quiet. The room simmered with tension, setting everyone’s teeth on edge like a dissonant chord. The only sounds were those of rustling cloth and the harsh scrape of the Stiffbeard’s knife on wood, and, when Bilbo cleared his throat, it felt louder than a hammer striking granite.

“Since Dáin will not arrive for some time,” Bilbo said. “I think we should table discussion of inheritance—”

“To speak of what?” the Firebeard asked scornfully. “Guilds? Reconstruction? The price of iron? No matter is more pressing than this.”

“Agreed,” the Stiffbeard said without looking up from his carving. “Especially since neither Princess Dís nor Prince Dáin wish to rule.”

“You misunderstand me,” Dís said. “It is not that I do not _wish_ to rule, it’s that I have seen what ruling does to my family. I am saving you the trouble.”

“I think you are shirking your duties,” a Broadbeam, Kárunn, said. “I would rather have an unwilling queen than no queen at all. Having a steward is unnatural — even though Master Baggins has done an admirable job. This is Erebor, not Gondor.”

“Gondor’s stewards also rose out of a need for someone to supplant a family afflicted by ill fortune and poor mental fortitude,” Dís said, her lip curling. “And now those stewards rule uncontested, with no thought as to their lesser lineage.”

“Men die faster than ravens and are twice as fickle,” Kárunn said. “They are swift to bend their wills toward new masters.”

“I took much work in the land of Gondor and I speak truly when I say that many wish for the return of Isildur’s Heir,” Ímundur Stonefoot added.

Dís turned to Balin. “How can you think this is a good idea? You should know, better than anyone, the price that the crown exacts.”

Balin frowned into his beard and did not answer.

“Dwalin?” she pleaded.

“I have nothing to add, for or against,” he said.

“All in favor of discussing succession?” Bilbo asked.

Everyone but her raised their hands.

“So this is how the great Dwarves of Erebor meet their end,” she hissed, rising from her chair. “Not in a final rush of bloodied axes and broken armor, but in a _vote_.”

“You Longbeards learned your lesson about choosing kings and you are no longer the majority within Erebor,” said Ímundur. “I have faith that the next King Under the Mountain will not suffer the same failings. Prince Dáin, for example, struck me as worthy.”

“He has no interest in the throne,” the Firebeard reminded him. “We should appoint our own claimants, to be judged by Prince Dáin and—” her lip curled “—our current regent, provided he swears on Durin’s name not to show bias towards his Longbeard friends.”

“I swear,” Bilbo said, putting up his hands. “No, if we’re going to do this, we’ll do it the right way.”

“And Princess Dís, if she wishes,” Ímundur added.

The Firebeard snorted. “She has made it very clear—”

“Mahal gave me a mouth with which to speak,” Dís snapped. When she looked around the table, she saw eighteen faces set upon their course. She held no sway over them; more had nodded approvingly at Bilbo’s pledge of neutrality than had heeded her warning. The thought of retreat left a sour taste in her mouth, but it was better than surrender. She sat down heavily and said, “I will aid your deliberation.”

“Thank you,” Balin said. She refused to look at him, instead steeling herself for the worst.

“One of Durin’s Folk has always sat beneath the Arkenstone,” Glóin said. “It wouldn’t be right if another clan took our place.”

“I see no claimants among you,” Enokur said.

Balin, Dwalin, Glóin, and Oin looked at each other uneasily. If Dáin did not want the crown, by rights Balin ought to be king, and, after him, Dwalin. Neither of them wished to rule, though, nor would it suit their temperaments. Oin was too old, but Glóin was young, still, and he had children. Perhaps he would—

“I’m nae doing it,” Glóin said, crossing his arms. “My family is enough of a challenge.”

“Then it seems the deliberation falls to the rest of us,” Enokur said.

The Stiffbeard cleared his throat and smoothed down his beard. “Myself and my Blacklock cousins have decided to back me, Halfríthur, son of Hanni, as the King Under the Mountain.”

“No,” Dís said immediately.

Halfríthur reddened. “You just swore to withhold bias.”

“I am,” she said. “I find you unfit to control the wealth and people my family died to defend.”

“You arrived yesterday,” the Blacklock said. “You know nothing of who is fit or unfit.”

“None of your kin stands for the throne, so I suggest you unbend your arrogance and look beyond the Longbeards to other claimants,” Halfríthur said.

“ _I_ , Signi of the Firebeards, support you,” the Firebeard Dwarrowdam said.

“Orcs always travel in packs,” Dís snarled, clenching her fists.

“So says Dís, granddaughter, daughter, and sister to three mad kings,” Signi said. Her small eyes narrowed further. “And a mother to two mad princes.”

Dís surged out of her chair, pulling her warhammer free as she lept over the table and smashed the place where Signi’s head had been moments before. Signi threw herself to the floor, reaching for her sword. Dís parried her counterattack with the hammer’s shaft, then pinned Signi’s hand under her boot and shattered her blade with one blow.

“Dís!” Bilbo exclaimed, and her hesitation was long enough for Dwalin to put a restraining hand on her shoulder. Slowly, Dís stepped off Signi’s wrist. The Firebeard scrambled back, clutching her chest.

“Remove her!” Signi shouted, pulling herself up on the edge of the table. “She’s mad, just like the rest of her family!”

“Stop!” Bilbo’s shrill voice cut over all the other noise. “Stop, stop, _stop_! This is absolutely ridiculous, the lot of you taunting each other and tussling like a bunch of tweens instead of grown Dwarves.”

“Would you stand idly by as your dead friends are insulted by this sparsely bearded ironmonger?” Dís cried, casting a hand towards Signi.

“No,” the hobbit said. “But I do know when I’m being baited.”

Dís gritted her teeth and searched for a pithy response she could spit through her teeth at the spineless halfling.

“ _Khuzd lulkhul ma taktibi amthâg nutuhbujbu khuzd murd takhafi kharshu bark,_ ” Dwalin whispered into her ear.

She jerked her arm free, but did not pursue the Firebeard.

The other Dwarves — who had jumped from their seats at her attack — slowly settled down again, most of them seeming untroubled with what had just unfolded.

“I’ve seen more impressive fights over sheep pasturage,” Enokur said by way of explanation.

Signi glared at him, then at Bilbo. “How can you tolerate the flaws of Durin’s Folk without recourse?”

“The flaws of Durin’s Folk almost cost me my life,” Bilbo said. “I know them very well — and that they can be overcome.” A grim smile flickered over his face. “Will anyone else step forward for the throne?”

The other clans — including Dís’ Longbeard kin — did not respond. Dís had feared this outcome; once Dwarves reached an impasse, it could take years to resolve.

“Then Dáin will judge if Halfríthur, son of Hanni, of the Stiffbeards, ought to be our next king,” Bilbo said, “with the support of the Blacklocks—”

“Here, here!” a Blacklock shouted.

“—and Signi, daughter of Sorvi, of the Firebeards.”

“I will consider the kingship,” Balin declared suddenly.

“Brother, no,” Dwalin said.

“I will take all the support and blessings I can,” Balin said to the table, nodding firmly.

Sounds or pledges of support came from his cousins, the Stonefoots, and one of the Firebeards. Balin turned to the Broadbeams, their hosts in exile, but their expression had been carefully schooled into neutrality.

“Although great friendship flourishes between our people, I will not pledge my fealty,” Kárunn said at last. “You are too old and you have no heirs. We will return to the same situation as before upon your death, unless a descendent of Dáin should turn their eye to the west.”

Balin inclined his head. “I would, of course, appoint an heir—”

“Who?”

“Perhaps we could discuss this tomorrow,” Bilbo suggested. “We have two contenders and ample time to consider more. We still need to go over guild negotiations with Dale.”

“Enjoying your last moments of power?” Halfríthur asked smugly. He folded his hands behind his head and leaned back. “They are numbered.”

“As they have always been,” Bilbo said pleasantly. “A steward is only a placeholder, after all.”

Dís expected Halfríthur to add something else, but he said nothing as the rest of the Dwarves agreed to move on to other topics.

The rest of the meeting passed uneventfully, passing over topics to which Dís paid no heed. Her attention was wholly devoted to Balin. Yesterday, he had seemed less harried than he had in years. At some moments, he had even appeared at peace. Now the invisible burden that he had carried in their exile had returned to his shoulders. Balin was not a young Dwarf; to crown him would be to kill him.

Finally, the meeting ended and the Dwarves filed out — the Stonefeet first, then the Firebeards and the Blacklocks. Ímundur, the Stonefoot who had been kind to Bilbo yesterday, paused to say, “Ah, Master Baggins. If only _you_ could be king.”

His jest was met with tired laughter from the remaining Dwarves.

“Don’t worry about me,” said Bilbo. “I expect I’ll take a long holiday after all of this is over and enjoy every second of it.”

Despite his lighthearted tone, a drop of melancholy colored his statement.

“Erebor will be emptier for it,” Ímundur said, with real emotion. He bowed to Bilbo, a motion copied by his Stonefoot fellow, the Broadbeams, the Ironfist, and a remaining Blacklock. Such a large show of support surprised Dís.

Then they, too, left, and she was alone with the company.

“What are you _thinking_?” Dwalin demanded of Balin.

“This is a Longbeard fastness and I won’t see its throne in the hands of others,” Balin said, his eyes hard. “Not after the battle.”

“You hate ruling,” Oin said.

“I hate…” Balin turned away, his hand at his mouth. “I hate seeing anyone than Thorin or Fíli on that throne. _They_ deserved it. After everything we went through…”

“Aye,” Dwalin said huskily.

Dís leaned against the table, tracing the geometric designs with one hand. As much as she detested the thought of an king ruling unchecked over her people, she understood why Balin felt obliged to put forth a suit. The thought of someone like Halfríthur or Signi taking the throne filled her with low, pulsating anger. She would not suffer an outsider to take the crown that Fíli had deserved.

“Someone else might volunteer,” Bilbo suggested. “A — a Broadbeam or … maybe I can convince Ímundur.”

“He has little spine,” Glóin said. Slowly, he added, “I’d take no joy in it, but I will take your place. Durin’s blood runs in my veins, I have bairns—”

“Don’t,” Dís said, closing her eyes. “Do not make Gimli a prince. He is too young to bend under the crown’s weight.”

Glóin threw his hands in the air, causing his hauberk to ring softly. “Someone must, and I’ll not let Balin work himself into an early grave.”

_See what you’ve done to us?_ Dís asked of Thorin. _I hope there’s a way you can see this from our maker’s halls, so you might rue the day you even thought of retaking Erebor._

“I’ll do it.” Everyone turned to Bilbo. He stood ramrod straight, his beardless chin held high. “If I can. I’ve rebuilt Erebor from ruins — I’ve even made friends with the Elves and Men. I know the ins and outs of this mountain like the back of my hand and…” His mouth twitched unhappily. “I can’t stand by and watch friends suffer when I could do something.”

The idea was appealing, but frustratingly impossible. Here was a creature who seemed entirely immune to dragon sickness, was accustomed to dealing with Dwarves, and, for the most part, appeared to be dangerously selfless. But he was not a Dwarf and no one would obey him, no matter how skilled or well-intentioned he was.

“Non-Dwarves cannot become our rulers,” said Balin. His eyes crinkled as he smiled. “But I appreciate the sentiment.”

“Ye’ve done enough for us on the quest and as steward,” Dwalin told the hobbit.

_I could do it._ Dís glanced up, afraid she had spoken her thoughts aloud. She had sworn never to pursue the crown — sworn on her hair as its roughly chopped strands blew into the Sundering Seas. She had no real desire for it, either. She had seen her sons bend under the crown’s weight, the premature grey in Thorin’s hair as he attempted to rule Ered Luin with as fair a hand as he could, her grandfather squatting in his own filth with a single gold coin dancing between his fingers.

What did she have? She had no children or consort to burden with her choice. There was no dream that she would be forced to abandon. She had no other occupation to busy her hands or mind. She had only the remaining years of her life, which would otherwise be frittered away as she waited to rejoin her family.

She did have one thing. She was of Durin’s Folk, and for that, she would make a reckoning of herself. “I will be queen.”

Whatever her cousins had been about to say died on their lips. They turned to her, their faces full of amazement, fear, and perhaps a little hope.

Dwalin was the first to bend on his knee. “You have always had my loyalty. You know that.”

“And ours as well,” said Glóin, indicating both himself and his brother.

Balin stepped forward, his face creased in sympathy. “Dís, you don’t need to do this.”

“Who else is there?” she asked. “You are old and your heart lies not on the throne, but beside it. I am young, still, and I have much experience leading our people, both in war and peace. I am the Heir of Durin. The throne is mine by right.” She met his gaze. “I will not be moved in this.”

Balin, too, bowed before her, until now only the hobbit remained on his feet. He seemed to be troubled, with a small frown on his round face.

“You know why I must do this,” Dís said to him. He would know that she wanted the throne to suck her dry at the same time it infused her with purpose. Erebor would take all of her strength at the same time it would give her a reason to pull herself from her bed every morning. He had said as much to her in the garden.

“I know,” he said, “but I don’t think they are the best reasons. Or that this is the best idea.” The other Dwarves looked to him in astonishment, but he pushed his hands into his jacket and stood his ground. “You haven’t been to Erebor in almost two centuries; Signi is a more familiar face than you are. You also disinherited yourself and I’m not familiar with Dwarvish succession, but that seems to throw a wrench in things.”

“She is the rightful queen,” Balin pointed out.

“ _Rightful_ shouldn’t mean _right_.” He winced and added, “I do support you, although in some circles that may be more a hindrance than a help.”

“Few circles,” Óin reassured him.

The hobbit did raise a valid point: she knew nothing of her homeland and, if her suit was to win, she would need to learn quickly. The fact she had disinherited herself could be swept aside with relative ease; her allies would not care and her enemies would only use it as proof of her indecisiveness.

“I must take my own council for awhile,” Dís said, “but I will send word within the hour.”

She let her feet carry them where they would as she ruminated over each step she would need to take to secure the throne. Firstly, she would need allies, of which she already had many, from both the Longbeards and other western clans who had closely associated with them. She could win allies by the sheer strength of her claim, but she had only a month — maybe two — before Dáin arrived for the final deliberation. If she could not charm the Dwarves, she might need to buy them. However, she had come ill prepared to fight for her throne. She had no wealth, nor did she have influence; she would need to barter that from her relatives … and from the hobbit.

The hobbit was a potential goldmine. He had allies scattered across the north, both within and without the mountain. He had been a wizard’s companion and he was accounted as Elf-friend by Thranduil and Elrond. And he was already the steward, within an intimate knowledge of Erebor’s inner workings. If anyone could pull favors for her, it would be him, if he had not been coerced into leaving.

She could not let him leave or give him time to vouch for another Dwarf.

Dís sent a messenger for him, then headed down to the treasure room.

She slowly descended the staircase, her hand automatically extending to brush the piles of coins. She forced herself to tolerate the sensation of their cool weight cascading through her hands; this, too, was hers by right. This, too, would help her win the crown.

Dís would love this gold. She would love it for the knowledge of what it could attain: favor, food, cloth, precious metals, tools, prestige. She would love it, because to do otherwise would be to throw her crown away before she even had a chance to wear it.

Besides, the treasure was not unlovely when she overcame the knowledge of what it had done to Thorin. There were many finely made works scattered amongst the coins that her fingers itched to examine, and the sheen of precious metal called to her as food might to a hobbit. There were gems, too, that seemed to shine with a brilliance independent of the firelight.

_This is not greed,_ she thought as she picked up a ruby larger than her eye. _This is pride, and harmless pride at that._

Someone cleared his throat behind her and Dís reluctantly set the ruby back down as she turned to face Bilbo. The hobbit regarded the gold with disgust and, belatedly, she realized she should have met him elsewhere.

“Do you wish to return to the Shire after I take the throne?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “I do miss the Shire. I miss the green spring and my airy smial. But Erebor is where my friends are, and my garden too.” He shrugged. “And I can’t go back yet. So I would like to stay here, if there’s some way I could be left at peace from those meddlesome Dwarves.”

“There is.” Dís took a worn leather pouch from her pocket, pulled the drawstrings open, and shook two silver beads into her hand. “Marry me.”

Bilbo stepped back, his eyebrows disappearing beneath his shaggy, unbound hair. “Marry? M—Me?” He pointed dumbly to his chest. “ _Me_? Is this a joke?”

“I wish,” Dís said, “but both of us can benefit. I will retain a trusted advisor and the support of your allies. You will stay in Erebor with a status even higher than it is now, able to govern or work your garden to your heart’s content — whichever should please you more.”

The hobbit shook his head dazedly. “This is—”

“An entirely political marriage,” Dís added smoothly. “I require nothing of you besides your loyalty.”

He was silent for so long that Dís feared he would reject her proposal. Then he chuckled and took the beads from her palm. “My, won’t Lobelia throw a snit when she learns I’ve become a _prince_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wedding shenanigans next chapter ft. Bard and Thranduil and good ale.
> 
> **Translations**  
>  _Khuzd lulkhul ma taktibi amthâg nutuhbujbu khuzd murd takhafi kharshu bark_ — the foolish dwarf knows not an insult, neither does a dead dwarf feel the cut of an axe


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wedding day arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **UPDATE:** Basically I tried expanding the fic _after_ I had finished it and long story short it didn't turn out as I wanted to and then NaNo attacked. The two penultimate chapters are not the ones I would have chosen for their position and a few plots got dropped. Maybe if I have time after my next longfic I'll come back to _Saudade_ , because I certainly have ideas, but not ones that I can develop with the time I have.

Ravenhill was an excellent refuge. It was removed from Erebor without being too distant, and, especially in the small hours of the morning, it was blissfully quiet. The only sounds were those of the ravens shuffling their feet in their sleep and the wind moaning through the domed structure.

Erebor’s old rookery had not survived two centuries of neglect, on top of a battle. After the ravens returned in force, they had harassed the Dwarves until Bilbo prioritized Ravenhill’s reconstruction. Due to the haste at which it had been built, the architecture was more Mannish than Dís preferred; nevertheless, the ravens were content and once more carried Erebor’s messages across the far reaches of Dwarvendom — and, sometimes, Hobbitdom.

The Dwarves tried not to send the birds over the Misty Mountains as winter approached, but Bilbo had sent two of them to the Shire with word of his engagement. When Dís had asked them why he would inform them of a wedding they could not attend, he had spluttered something about _propriety_ and _doing things properly_.

The ponderous flap of wings grew louder until a raven settled clumsily on her shoulder, his claws finding purchase on the mail below her armor. Dís offered him a scrap of ham and Roäc snapped it up, then burbled happily.

One of the best parts of the past week had been her first visit to the rookery. The ravens had been driven into a frenzy at the sight of Thrór’s granddaughter and it had taken hours to stop them from swarming. Finally, she had been properly introduced to Roäc, the most senior of the ravens, and they had taken to each other instantly.

“What messages would you have us carry today, Queen Dís?” Roäc asked her.

“ _Princess,_ ” she corrected. “I am still only a princess. The coronation is not for another week.”

With Bilbo quite literally wedded to her cause, she had attained the support of the mountain’s majority, and then some. A few remained reticent about vouching for someone who had opposed the prospect of a single ruler, but they had become less vocal after Dáin’s arrival. Dís herself was against her appointment in many ways, but who could she trust to temper her greed more than herself?

She began to pick her way towards the rookery’s entrance, carefully skirting the piles of droppings that had accumulated on the floor. “In any case, I have no message.”

Ravenhill held a commanding view of Erebor, Dale, and valley below, and standing at the tower’s window made her feel as if she were surveying her kingdom, even though she could espy little of it from behind the rain.

She felt Roäc’s head cock, his beak brushing the curls already springing loose from her smith’s braid. “You are hiding.”

“Aye,” Dís admitted. “I abhor weddings.”

The old raven’s chest feathers puffed out. “Shall we mob your husband? Peck out his eyes? Chase him from the roost?”

“Durin’s beard, no,” Dís said. She scratched Roäc under the chin. “I may not love him, but he does not deserve that fate.”

“Look,” Roäc said suddenly. A small host was making its way towards Erebor, half-hidden under the mist. They were attired in greens and golds, and their leader rode an enormous elk. Arrogance rolled off them like a foul stench.

“Thranduil,” Dís snarled. She had been opposed to his attendance, but the others had outshouted her. “You may mob— hey!”

Roäc nipped a cuff from her ear and flew back to his inaccessible perch.

“I’ll forget the ham next time,” Dís said, stalking out of the rookery and down its many stairs.

She would not miss her own wedding.

* * *

Dís returned to Erebor early, but not soon enough to escape Balin’s fussing.

“We’ll have to re-braid your hair,” he said as she dismounted her ram. “And your cloak is covered in mud.”

She glanced back and found, as she had expected, a few infinitesimal specks of dirt around the hem. “It’s a relief, then, that this marriage is to be of no great spectacle.”

“I couldn’t stop the marriage of the Queen Under the Mountain from being a spectacle if I tried,” Balin said. “Over three thousand Men, Dwarves, and Elves are attending and you will meet all of them with a muddy cape.”

“Thorin met them in worse,” Dís grumbled.

Balin scowled. “We had no choice in the matter.” He readjusted her cloak. “This is your chance to make a better first impression than your brother did, although, honestly lass, I can’t think of how you could do worse than being covered in spiderwebs and a week’s worth of filth.” He tutted disapprovingly and unraveled one of the braids hanging crookedly over her ears. She was still new to their weave, as they signified her status as Durin’s Heir. “Have you seen Bilbo?”

“He’s probably in his garden,” Dís said. In truth, she had evaded her future husband for the last month in the turmoil surrounding her coronation. As much as he seemed like a decent fellow, she had no desire to be reminded of yet another chain of her new office.

Balin leaned closer and motioned Dís to do the same. “Has Bilbo spoken of Thorin recently?”

“No,” Dís said warily. “Why?”

“That is his secret to tell,” Balin said. “But I’m happy to hear that.”

“May I have one day to myself, without mention of Thorin?” she asked the old Dwarf. “When will I crawl out of his shadow?”

“The dead can neither defend themselves, nor disprove the accolades heaped on their graves,” Balin said. “Thorin had a bit of both.”

 _Perhaps never_ , Dís translated. It galled her that the standard to which she would be held was that of a grossly idealized Thorin. Yet, it was oddly comforting to shoulder yet another burden atop the many she already struggled to support. If she took on enough, perhaps they would crush her in a final act of doomed nobility. Then she, too, could have her flaws washed by her mourners’ tears.

“I saw Thranduil coming,” Dís said. “He is near Dale’s gates.”

Balin cursed under his breath before straightening his voluminous maroon robes. “I’ll see that the heralds are ready. You should find Bilbo.”

Dís went back into Erebor with the intent to search out a stiff drink, but she ran into her cousin, Dáin, instead.

“Well, if it isn’t the blushing bride herself,” Dáin said, crushing her in an embrace.

When she had told him who the next monarch was to be, she had expected boisterous relief or happiness. Instead, he had dropped one hand on her shoulder, pulling their foreheads together. Moments later, they parted and Dáin’s eyes had been full of quiet understanding.

“The cold air reddened my cheeks,” Dís grumbled.

“Off talking to the ravens again?” Dáin asked. “Their brains are full of feathers and greed, if you ask me.”

Dís touched her ear. Of course, Roäc had absconded with the gold cuff with mithril inlay. Anger sparked in her chest, as quickly as a flash in the pan. That cuff was too valuable for a raven to keep. “I’ve had worse company.” She tugged the breastplate away from her chest, giving herself room to breathe. “Who modified this armor?”

“I didn’t remember you being so fat,” Dáin teased.

Dís punched his shoulder in retaliation. “Thranduil’s coming.”

“And I’ll be ready for him,” Dáin said, cracking his knuckles.

“I had hoped my own wedding would be pass without bloodshed,” Bilbo said from behind Dáin. He and Dís jumped.

“Good morning,” Dís said stiffly.

“Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I think so or not, or that you feel good this morning, or that it is morning to be good on?” Bilbo asked with a faint smile.

“Only the second,” Dís said after a pause.

Dáin guffawed and ruffled the Hobbit’s curly hair. “You’re to smart to become a Durin.”

Bilbo turned to her, then paused, his eyes widening. “Oh.” He gulped. “ _That_ armor.”

“What’s wrong with it?” she demanded. It had been her grandfather’s and was a great heirloom of her house, although she supposed she could forgive a simple hobbit for not recognizing its worth.

“Thorin wore that armor when … when he was sick,” Bilbo said, his face drained of blood. He plucked at his collar and said, “Well, it looks very nice on you.”

“You are … well-dressed as well,” Dís said.

She was lying; Bilbo appeared even scrawnier than usual in cumbersome Dwarvish garb, and he had still dressed too casually. He had viciously fought — and won — for minimal embroidery, and the only admissions to his status were the two tiny braids on the side of his head. They were scarcely longer than the beads themselves.

“Is there somewhere I should be?” Bilbo asked, just as Dori rounded the corner and shouted, “There you are! We were not finished, Mister Baggins!”

Bilbo sighed and padded back to Dori, resignation weighing on his shoulders. “I told you, the robe is perfectly…”

Dís and Dáin watched him go, complaining to Dori the entire time.

“Never thought you’d remarry,” Dáin said, “least of all the hobbit.”

“That makes two of us,” Dís said, crossing her arms. “He may not possess the traits we Dwarves prize, but he is honest and humble, and his loyalty and strength of character may arrest my … my fall.” She bit her lip at the thought. Would there ever be a time when she valued the luster of precious metals over the faces of her own kin? “I heard he did much the same for Thorin.”

“Ye’ve too much pain in your heart to hear the gold’s call,” Dáin reassured her. Then he looked at her askance. “Has Bilbo spoken of Thorin?”

“No,” Dís said. “I expect remembering the dead is taxing for him.”

Dáin’s queer expression vanished and he clapped her on the back with his usual gruff camaraderie. “To our battle stations!”

* * *

Dwarvish weddings were solemn affairs.

Bilbo — who had once rambled long into the night about the pomp and spectacle surrounding Hobbit marriages — must have been underwhelmed at the somber exchange of wedding contracts.

It took a full two hours for them to hammer out the exhaustive number of clauses, subclauses, and conditions of their marriage. Much of that time was spent waiting for Balin, their scribe and witness, to finish writing; the content had already been discussed during a dinner earlier in the week. When the last word had been inked, Dís signed her name and passed the quill to Bilbo so he could follow suit.

“I’ll take this outside to dry,” Balin said after Bilbo finished, and departed with the contract.

“Well, we’re married,” Bilbo said in the burgeoning silence.

“Aye,” Dís said, and they looked upon each other as spouses for the first time. In Bilbo, Dís saw a hobbit with a strong jaw and a quick eye drowning in overlarge robes. She wondered what he saw in her. Did he see a small Dwarf playing dress-up in her brother’s armor? Did he see the makings of a great queen? Or did he see her only as his last chance to remain in Erebor?

“Shall we go?” Bilbo said at last, offering his arm.

The vows themselves were private; the following libations were not. To accommodate the crowds that had flocked to Erebor, Balin had commandeered Erebor’s third-largest hall, but the vast space seemed cramped with all the Dwarves, Elves, and Men serried within. Dís had hoped that announcing the wedding as scarcely a week prior would prevent many from attending. In that, she had erred: the its swiftness had only drawn more curious eyes.

Cheers and applause met their entrance. Dís held herself proudly, but the halfling raised his hand in a friendly wave. He was _smiling_ and it appeared natural. Dís felt a pang of envy. Although it was she who had been crowned, it was clear she would not be queen for some time.

They processed down the aisle, reaching the slab-like chairs dominating the high table. Dáin sat to Dís’ left, with Balin beside him, while King Thranduil sat at Bilbo’s left, and King Bard’s heir, Princess Sigrid, beside him. Oin and Glóin were seated together on Dís’ side — Dwalin and two others stood guard behind her — and the representatives from the seven clans filled out similar chairs on Bilbo’s side. The company filled out the rest of the table, as befitting their status as heroes. It was a powerful assemblage and to be at their heart lent some steel to Dís’ spine.

Normally, she would have immediately sent for the food, but this was the first time that she had addressed such a large crowd. She had to take advantage of that.

Dís rose from her seat, her armor clanking softly. _“Erebor!”_ The echoes had barely dissipated before the Dwarves — _her_ Dwarves — pounded the tables and floors with their feet and fists and the butts of their axes. She waved them into silence, her pride swelling as they obeyed. Then she continued in Khuzdûl: “For too long, you have been without a leader. But I address you today as Dís, daughter of Thráin, born of Durin’s Folk, and _Queen Under the Mountain!_ ”

The crowd roared their approval, screaming and stamping. _Aye, this should have been Thorin’s coronation and Thorin’s reign, but I will make it mine. What other choice do I have, save to weep before my subjects, or, worse, act as a shadow of who I must be? There is no middle ground as queen._ Bilbo passed her a cup of wine and she held it aloft. “May Durin be born anew in these days of plenty!”

“May he be reborn!” the Dwarves chorused back. Neither Halfríthur nor Signi joined.

She drained the goblet in one gulp and fell back into her seat, instinctively relaxing after the carts of food caught everyone’s attention. But in her heart, she knew that peace was a luxury she no longer had. She was to be queen, and it was her lot to lead by example in every waking second of her life.

“Stirred the blood, that did,” Dáin told her. “If you’re ever needing a few hundred soldiers, you have my axe.”

“And the same to you, cousin,” Dís said, and they gripped each others’ forearms.

Dáin glanced behind her. “I believe your husband is trying to catch her attention.”

She turned to face Bilbo, only to find him poised to commence introductions with the Elvenking.

“Princess Dís,” Thranduil said. “We meet at last.”

Balin, who was passing by, gave her a warning kick under the table before escorting Dáin away from the table on some pretense or another. Thranduil watched Dáin go as a fox might a hound after it had been called off the hunt.

“The honor is mine,” Dís said coolly. “I was pleasantly surprised you were able to attend my wedding on such short notice.”

“It is not your wedding I came for,” Thranduil said. “The title of _elvellon_ is not bestowed lightly and, in these dark days, a king must keep his friends close.”

“And her enemies closer,” Dís countered through gritted teeth.

Bilbo leaned forward, obscuring Thranduil entirely from Dís’ view. “She means she is delighted because we have much to discuss with a fellow monarch and _ally_.”

“I know well what she meant,” Thranduil said to Bilbo, taking a sip of wine. “Dís of Durin’s Folk is as a feral dog, snapping at anyone who approaches, even those that come with an open hand.”

“And Thranduil Oropherion is as a bloated spider, sitting on the fringes of his web, hidden from his foes, silently drawing in the unwary to suck both life and treasure from them,” Dís retorted. She faintly heard something that she suspected was Balin putting his head in his hands.

“By Yavanna, this is a wedding,” Bilbo scolded. “ _My_ wedding, no less, so for the love you both bear me, please make a stab at cordiality.”

_I’ll make a stab at it — right through Thranduil’s third and fourth rib._

Thranduil bowed his head. “My apologies, Prince Consort.”

Dís made a vague grunt.

Bilbo sighed, but clapped his hands together and moved another topic. “How goes the cleansing of the forest?”

“It proceeds apace,” Thranduil said. “The lands around Dol Guldur are proving difficult, even with Radagast’s help. The vegetation grows so thickly that the sun is hidden and our movement is hindered.”

“Would it go faster if we sent a company of Dwarves to aid you?” Bilbo asked. He turned to an incredulous Dís and added, “Our caravans travel under Mirkwood’s leaves, too, and Thranduil has tasked his own daughter to ensure safe passage through the Woodland Realm. The least we could do is return the favor.”

“I was unaware you had a daughter,” Dís said, shying at the thought of cooperating with Thranduil.

“She is my foster daughter,” Thranduil clarified. His icy eyes gleamed with malice. “When might you send children of your own to my service?”

Bilbo choked on his potato, barely managing to disguise it as a cough. Dís, for her part, was struck with a sudden and profound sense of sorrow. “Never of my own blood.”

Thranduil’s featured softened into something akin to remorse, and, for one horrible second, Dís knew that they shared a grief beyond words.

Fortunately, the Elvenking seemed as uncomfortable as she was and gracefully excused himself from the table.

Dís turned to Bilbo. “I thought I made it clear that I do not want children.”

“I understand,” Bilbo said hastily. “I’ve never expected to have children, either, by you or anyone else. I just didn’t expect him to ask.”

She pondered his words for a moment before asking, “Are you disinterested in females?”

“No,” he said. “For example, I feel quite comfortable in saying that you are a beautiful Dwarf.”

Her eyebrows rose. “I’m flattered that you would say that while I shared a room with such exemplary Dwarves as Signi and Dori.”

“Too much hair,” he said, his nose wrinkling. “I’d have a reaction.”

Curious, Dís asked, “How do hobbits judge beauty, then, if not by the luster and length of their beards, or the strength of their arms, or the stoutness of their form?”

“Oh, you know,” he said, flushing. “Beautiful eyes.”

“You find my eyes … beautiful?” she asked. A part of her shared in his evident embarrassment, rejoicing in the chase — or what passed for it in her old age. She had not been considered desirable for many years and to see someone at odds with how to compliment her filled her with immature delight. Another part of her watched from a safe distance, coldly delving for the reason Bilbo was so free with his compliments. There must be one, since their interactions up to this point had been purely business. _The wine must be loosening his tongue._

“Yes. They’re very…” He swished the wine around for a moment and then said, “Dark, but warm. A night where you would want to lay on your back and watch the stars.”

Dís’ lips parted in surprise. She felt as she had been caught her flat-footed and she struggled for a rejoinder. “Are all hobbits this forthcoming?”

“No,” Bilbo said with a laugh. “I used to hem and haw over every word that wasn’t yes or no or a complaint of some kind. Keeping company with Dwarves instilled me with some much-needed bluntness.”

“Well, it would not do for a queen to be prudish where even a hobbit would not,” Dís said. “It seems I owe you a compliment in return.”

“I never said hobbits were prudish,” he said, wagging a finger at her. “And we aren’t. Not even one as uptight as I am.”

Dís gave him an appraising look. “Then you, Master Baggins, I would praise for your quick tongue. I hope you put it to good use for the entirety of our marriage.”

Her — admittedly wine-soaked — instincts urged him to read it as an invitation; she didn’t know if she was desperate or crazy in considering the hobbit a desirable partner. In any case, it was not the worst idea she had ever concocted and it was better than another night alone with her thoughts.

But before Bilbo could reply, Ímundur demanded Dís’ attention and the moment — if there even had been one — lapsed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Princess Sigrid sits in Bard's place because he's (not life-threateningly) sick. Poor Bard.
> 
>  **Translations**  
>  _Elvellon_ \- Elf-friend


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wedding party comes to its conclusion, a wizard is late, and the newlyweds stumble off to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The epilogue will be up tomorrow!

For the next few hours, Dís bantered with Dáin and Balin about any topics that came to mind: old stories, Dáin’s son, the road between Erebor and the Iron Hills, the efficiency of goats and ponies over various terrains, and so on. Dwarf kings were not held to the same standards of decor as Elves or Men, and she took advantage of that rule to become, if not drunk, pleasantly intoxicated.

On her other side, Bilbo held his own court with a ever-changing crowd made up of people from all three races. He accommodated all of them with practiced ease, drinking and joking with them as easily as he might his own people. Dís noticed that he, too, was putting away quite a lot of wine, although he seemed less affected.

The food was eventually cleared away and the tables moved to the sides of the hall to create an open space for dancing. There were three groups of musicians — one of Elves, one of Dwarves, one of Men and Dwarves — and Bilbo had orchestrated a rotation to cater to everyone’s preferences. The first to play were the Men and Dwarves, who struck up a lively jig.

“I have no desire to dance,” Dís informed Bilbo.

“No matter,” Bilbo said. “I didn’t fancy having my toes crushed under your great boots anyway.”

“I would not to crush your toes,” Dís scoffed. “We Dwarves are light on our feet and more flexible than our bodies suggest.”

Bilbo tipped his goblet towards her with an impish smile. “In that, Lady Dís, hobbits and Dwarves are quite— _Gandalf?_ ”

Dís twisted around to find the wizard standing beside her, having apparently popped out of thin air. Dwalin had a scowl firmly planted on his face, but made no move to restrain the wizard.

“Indeed it is, my dear fellow,” Gandalf said, embracing the hobbit. “I came as soon as I heard, which, indeed, was a few hours ago, when I happened to be passing through Dale on my way to the Iron Hills.”

“How fortuitous!” Bilbo said.

“Events in Middle Earth are rarely a result of mere fortune,” Gandalf said as he turned to Dís, bowing to her deeply. “Princess Dís. I don’t believe our paths have crossed.”

“Never, although I have heard much of you,” Dís said. “ _Grouchy, secretive, and useful in a tight corner_ was the company’s general consensus.” Dwalin cast her a look of utter betrayal. “I must thank you for inspiring Thorin to retake the mountain.” Her voice took on a sarcastic tone. “Everything you see here is owed to you.”

“Then perhaps I might defray your debt by asking a moment of your time and a walk around the room,” the wizard said innocently.

Dís initially balked. Wizard’s words were like rats in a granary: once in, they were impossible to remove, and they were just as dangerous for one’s health. She had no love for wizards as a whole, either, finding them a meddlesome and needlessly mystical lot. Still, the fortuitous might glean an interesting fact or two from their ramblings, and it was for that reason that she decided to accompany him.

“Very well,” Dís asked. She noticed Dwalin trailing behind and signaled him to stay. Her armor was too heavy for all but a black arrow to pierce and she was with Gandalf. She would be safe — from bodily harm, at least. “What do you want?”

“Nothing in particular,” Gandalf said. “I am curious as to how Erebor has gotten along in the years since the battle.”

“I would not know,” Dís said, clasping her hands behind her back. “I arrived almost a month ago from Ered Luin. Bilbo has been ruling as the steward.”

“You wish he still was,” Gandalf said.

Dís scanned for attentive ears before answering. “Kingship does not become my family.”

“I doubt you could have avoided this outcome if you tried,” Gandalf said. “You are of the Line of Durin. Ruling is in your blood.”

“As is madness,” Dís snapped. “My only consolation is that my line will end with me, and the curse of dragon sickness with it. Rest assured, wizard — I have no interest in that gold other than how it might serve my people.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Gandalf said, nodding. “Your kin has suffered enough.” They had reached the door leading out of the hall when Gandalf stopped. He glanced at the corridor beyond and said, “I admit I was not entirely honest when I said I merely wished to speak with you.”

Dís pinched her brow, where she could feel a distinctly wizard-related headache blossoming. “Then what do you want?”

Gandalf merely continued looking in the same direction.

She glared at him and stomped into the hallway. It seemed empty save for a few guards, until Bifur beckoned her from the shadows. She followed him around the corner, where they met with Bombur, Bofur, Nori, Dori, and Ori. The other Dwarves glowered down at her, their shoulders bunched as if they were preparing for a fight.

“You’ll be nice to our burglar,” Nori said, “or Erebor’ll be looking for a new queen.”

“Come try it!” Dís snarled, instinctively adopted a ready stance. She did not know why the company had turned against her, but she would not die before she even wore the crown.

Dori cast her an apprehensive glance and cuffed his brother. “We’re not going to kill her!”

“What’s the point of making a threat if you don’t imply the worst?” Nori asked.

“This was just meant to be a friendly conversation,” Ori muttered.

“I don’t understand,” Dís said without lowering her hands.

“What my esteemed companions are trying to say is that we have no idea why you’re marrying Bilbo, so we’ve been thinking something awful,” Bofur said, twisting one end of his mustache. “And if that’s the case, then we’re not above knocking a few royal skulls around.”

“Yeah!” Ori said, clenching his fists. With his blocky hands and his bowl cut, he looked more like a growly puppy than anything Dís ought to fear.

“We just want the best for Bilbo,” Dori said.

Bombur nodded vigorously in agreement.

“We look out for each other,” Nori added.

Dís realized that the last few weeks had been so busy that the company must not have been able to exchange information. Balin, Dwalin, Oin, and Glóin all knew why she had decided to wed Bilbo, but the rest of them had been left in the dark. She quickly explained the circumstances surrounding their marriage, ending with, “I mean him no harm.”

“Oh, good,” Nori said. “Although we all thought that about Thorin, until—”

This time, Dori trod heavily on his foot. “That’s excellent to hear, Your Majesty. We hope to see you again at our dinners.”

The Ri brothers retreated down the hallway, arguing about something too quietly for her to hear.

“Is that a promise?” Bifur asked her.

“On my family’s name,” Dís said, placing one hand over her heart. “And on my honor.”

“He’s lost enough already,” Bofur said. “Don’t make him suffer any more.” He swept into an overly elaborate bow. “Our felicitations.”

Then, they, too, left and Dís returned to the dais, too stunned to call them back and charge them with high treason.

* * *

Finally, the revelry reached its ebb, and Bilbo and Dís made their retreat. Many a bawdy comment trailed in their wake, which Bilbo bore with wry humor and Dís despised. For one thing, she was deeply affronted that her subjects seemed to think she would be on the bottom.

“You must come to my rooms,” Dís told him when they were alone again.

“What for?”

“I have a gift for you,” she said, trying to phrase it as blandly as possible. “Is that what hobbits do at their weddings? Give gifts?”

“Oh,” Bilbo said. “It’s more of an exchange, but yes, we do that.”

Somewhat drily, she asked, “Were you expecting something else?”

“No, not at all.” The hobbit flushed, although she suspected some of it had to do with all he wine he had put away at dinner. “I have a gift for you as well, but it won’t come until spring. When it does, I promise I’ll present it with all the pomp and spectacle that it deserves.”

“It does not require either.”

“ _Dwarves,_ ” Bilbo said with fond exasperation. “You build halls big enough for a dragon to fly through for your daily market and regularly trade in diamonds bigger than my head, but when it comes to displays of affection you hoard it as a hobbit would his family recipes.”

“It is our way.” They arrived at Dís’ rooms and she ushered him inside, rolling her shoulders in discomfort. “Help me with the armor. There are clasps under the plates.”

Although she was not a tall Dwarf, Bilbo had to stand on his toes to find the buckles over her shoulders. He nearly dropped a pauldron, but after that he treated the rest of her armor with much more care. Dís stripped off her gorget, gauntlets, and vambraces, until she wore only a wool tunic, her boots, and the greaves. Her upper body ached; she had not worn plate armor in decades.

“What did Gandalf want?” Bilbo asked.

“To ensure I am not in the gold’s thrall,” Dís said, examining the breastplate for nicks. “Then your friends threatened to kill me if my intentions towards you were less than honorable.”

The hobbit laughed. “Oh, confusticate the lot of them. I survived the quest and I’m sure I can survive my own marriage.”

“I was never accounted as the kindest of my siblings,” Dís warned, leaning against her bed.

“Siblings?”

“I had another brother, Frerin,” Dís said. “He was second-oldest, and the most amicable.” A shadow passed over her memory. “Frerin was too young to fight at Azanulbizar, but he begged _’adad_ until he took him anyway. He died.”

“I see why no one mentioned him,” Bilbo said quietly.

Dís shrugged. “There is only so much that you can say under the pretense of honoring one’s memory before it becomes a form of self-flagellation. We do not often speak of the dead.”

She knew she was being unusually loquacious, but there was little she could do to withhold her words. There was something about the hobbit’s plain countenance that seemed to encourage her and she wondered if he had that effect on everyone. To stop herself from saying anything else to someone she barely trusted, she walked to her bedside table and picked up a large parcel wrapped in brown paper. She tossed it at the hobbit and he caught it deftly before tearing off the paper to reveal a shovel — of his size, thankfully; she had had to use Ori for a scale — with a handle of polished oak and a steel blade.

“The blade is gilt with mithril,” Dís explained when he examining its shimmering edge. “It will be more than a match for any root or rock you should come across.”

Bilbo tested its balance — perfect, of course; she was not a master weaponsmith for naught — and gingerly lowered it. “And any orc neck, too!”

She bowed her head in acknowledgement. “Take care with where you store it; that much mithril could pay for tonight’s hall fifty times over, and food for a hundred feasts besides.”

Bilbo paled and cast an anxious glance at the shovel. “And how much would a whole shirt of it cost?”

Dís’ eyes narrowed. He had never displayed such avarice, so she put his question down to curiosity, even though his voice was laden with something akin to dread. “My grandfather, Thrór, once fashioned a mithril shirt for an Elvish princeling. Although it was small enough to fit you, it could count as one-fourteenth share of the treasure.”

Bilbo lowered his collar, revealing the glitter of silver steel. Dís jerked back, astounded.

“Where did you get that?” she breathed.

“Thorin gave it to me,” he said, “before the battle. You can ask the company about it; they all saw.”

“He _gave_ it to you?” Dís asked. “I thought he was … already ill.”

“Afterward, he pulled me aside and told me that he couldn’t trust anyone in the company,” Bilbo said with forced humor. He grabbed the collar. “Should I give it back?”

Realization dawned on her. The truth had been staring her in the face all month, from their first meeting to Dwalin and Dáin’s comments today to the mithril shirt. “You and Thorin were lovers.”

“No, nothing of the sort!” Bilbo exclaimed.

“He would not give you that shirt in the depths of his illness unless he bore you great affection.” She dragged her hands down her face, laughing. “From my brother’s crown to my brother’s leftovers — can I have anything of my own?”

“ _Leftovers?_ ” the hobbit sputtered. “We never … there was never—”

“There is no shame in it,” Dís said, blinking back tears of mirth. “Do not mistake my surprise for disgust. Thorin has never once taken a lover and I am surprised that he turned out to be…” She cleared her throat. “You are not what I expected.”

“If he never took a lover, how did you know what to expect?” Bilbo demanded.

“I did, at least, expect a Dwarf.”

Her impression of Bilbo had shifted yet again, but since it was Thorin I-Shall-Slay-a-Dragon-with-Only-Thirteen-Companions Oakenshield’s opinion that had done the shifting, she took it with a grain of salt. Still, Bilbo must have many other admirable qualities, and she studied him as one might an unassuming brook that had yielded a nugget of gold.

“He was a Dwarf lord and I’m just a Hobbit,” Bilbo said with unaccustomed gravity. “I’m accounted as _respectable_ in the Shire — a very hard title to attain, by the by — but I doubt that counts much among a people who sing of their great deeds in battle and halls delved into the hearts of mountains.”

“We have many songs of love as well, especially that which is sundered,” Dís said gently. She felt unusually defensive of the hobbit, as if they were kin or lovers instead of spouses of convenience.

Bilbo waved her comment aside brusquely. “I don’t even know if Thorin loved me. We never spoke of it.”

“Sometimes you don’t need to.”

“Some confirmation might have been nice before I spent the rest of my life pining after someone,” Bilbo said dryly.

“You need not listen to me. Matters of the heart have always been a mystery,” Dís said. “I would much prefer to argue over politics.”

“Not this late,” Bilbo said with a groan. “I have somewhere to be early tomorrow.”

“Excellent,” she said. “I have the advantage.”

“Press it, if you will,” he said. “I am at your mercy.”

“And in what way am I supposed to interpret that?”

He considered it for a moment, then looked up at her through his thick eyelashes. “Any way you want, I suppose.”

“I see,” Dís said, not missing his quick glance towards her empty bed. She supposed there were worse things to do with her evening than try to bed her brother’s widower. They were both bitter and alone — as far as she was concerned, she needed no other impetus.

Then Bilbo grabbed his cloak. “Well, I ought to be going. It’s late, after all. Wouldn’t want to give the wrong impression.”

“The impression that we can, in fact, work together on occasion?” Dís asked as she pulled one of the laces on her tunic loose. “Dwarves don’t care about reputation the way Men do. I assume hobbits don’t either, from the number of children running about.”

“We don’t,” Bilbo said. “I’m just not—” He paused, and his eyes narrowed. “I’m just a hobbit of the Shire. There is nothing special—”

“I don’t care,” Dís snapped. “This isn’t special. I’m not promising you love; in truth, I did not feel it for the two Dwarves I wed willingly. But, Mahal, I think we have been sad and alone for long enough. Misery loves company, and maybe if we close our eyes and douse the lights, we can pretend the other is who we want them to be.”

For a long moment, Dís feared that she had scared him off with her honesty. But then he bent down and began to blow out the candles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon is that Dís wed two Dwarves at about the same time, and therefore Fíli and Kíli had different fathers.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our tale comes to an end.

Peace did not come easily to the great kingdom of Erebor.

Dís, Daughter of Durin, Queen Under the Mountain, ruled as best she knew how, with all the grace and dignity of her forebears before her. She governed her people and the many treasures they delved or fashioned firmly, but her reign was not perfect. Many times, she clashed with her neighboring monarchs and with others who did not heed her words, and she proved quicker in judgment than in mercy. And, as much as she tried to disguise it, there were still days when grief would trap her within her own mind. Perhaps the fate of Erebor would have turned for the worse, save for the guiding hand of the prince consort.

Second in power, but not in the esteem of his people, Bilbo Baggins, late of the Shire, now served as Erebor’s balance: he was amicable when Dís was harsh, humble when she was arrogant, and flexible when she was stubborn. He turned many enemies to allies, and maintained close relationships both within and without the Lonely Mountain. Yet he was not perfect either, and the royal couple weathered many vicious arguments, where words spoken in haste and anger and would not be retracted for days at a time.

Despite this — or perhaps because of it — they found their rhythm and the days of peace far outnumbered those of war. As Dís had foretold, their bond was not of love, but of duty and respect. Nevertheless, it held fast against time and tide and the greatest evil of their age.

Their marriage had newly entered its twenty-fourth year when Tharkûn arrived in the middle of the night to warn Bilbo that the magic ring he had sent back to the Shire for safekeeping was the One Ring, sought by Sauron to subjugate all life in Arda. Four months later, Primula Baggins and her nine companions set out from Rivendell to destroy it. Dís and Bilbo, far away in Erebor, knew of her quest but little of its progress. Scarcely a week after they received word of her departure, the armies of the Haradrim combined with orcs of Gundabad to besiege the North. Dale fell, King Thranduil and King Bard with it, and thousands sought refuge behind Erebor’s great gates. The end seemed nigh, until the great host scattered without warning. It would be days before Erebor learned that Primula had unmade the Ring into the fires of Orodruin and cast down the terrible Maiar for the last time.

The long process of rebuilding began in the hands of a council, as both Dís and Bilbo had to travel to Gondor to witness the coronation of King Elessar. Within the White City’s walls, they learned what had transpired from the surviving members of the company; Tauriel of Mirkwood had fallen on the very slopes of Mount Doom, slaying the Witch King of Angmar with her last breath. Even Dís had to admit it was a magnificent tale, and Bilbo mumbled something about writing a book.

The royal couple’s path soon bent homeward and they departed Minas Tirith at midsummer with the love and blessings of its new king and queen. Despite Gondor’s beauty, both Dís and Bilbo were eager to look upon Erebor once more.

With most of the Dwarves and the Men of Dale still building, their reception at the gate was small: only the surviving members of the company, a few guards and other friends, and their children. Thorin III, the eldest and grimmest, had had to grow swiftly during the grueling war, but she had emerged from its trials even stronger than before. Her parents knew she would make a fine queen when the time came. Frís, the second born, was named after Dís’ mother and resembled her father closest in manner and appearance. _Silvertongue_ she was named, for she could calm even the fiercest quarrels with her sharp wit and boundless compassion. Bilbo had prevailed upon Dís to use a hobbit name for their third child, but ultimately they had had no choice, for she was Durin VII, last and greatest of her name. Durin was now six summers old, hazel-eyed and raven-haired and Hobbit-eared, and she shadowed Dwalin wherever he went. Many had raised concerns with Durin’s apparent mentor, but never within range of Bilbo’s keen ears.

Bilbo and Dís both agreed that three children was a perfectly good number, but soon after their return, Dís learned she would be a mother yet again.

“This one should be called _the Last_ ,” she was heard to grumble to anyone who remarked on her swelling belly. “A curse upon the curly heads of all hobbits!”

In the privacy of their rooms, Bilbo took great amusement with her irritation. “There’s no need to be so melodramatic, _ghivashel_. I’m sure a fourth—”

“Will be the end of me,” Dís said dryly. While Thorin III’s birth had been preceded by many months of anxiety over fears of replacing her sons, by now she eagerly anticipated to new additions to their family. “Four children? It was scandalous when my father had three.”

“Then I’m glad it will be your problem,” Bilbo said, laughing. “Perhaps a short life can be a blessing.”

Their merriment withered, and what had been a warm autumn afternoon turned cool beneath the low-riding sun. There was something on Dís’ mind, something that she had long been afraid to ask, but their discussion had finally provided her with an opportunity. “What happens to hobbits after death?”

Bilbo snorted. “I don’t know. Neither does Gandalf — or, if he does know, the old meddler won’t tell me. He’s only become more mysterious since becoming White, and no less cantankerous.”

“How do you not know?” Dís asked, the faint embers of anger stirring in her chest. “Even Edain know that they do _not_ know.”

“Mahal will call Durin back to his halls,” Bilbo said, gently taking her hand his. “You will have her, at least.”

“I do not fear for our children,” she snapped. “Mahal delights too much in his creations to allow any of us to slip away. When I go to his halls, I will be surrounded by my family and, in time, I know that _all_ our daughters will join me.” She turned to her husband, glaring at his wrinkled hands and the crow’s feet in his eyes and the blue veins pulsing softly in his forehead as if she could will them to disappear. “I fear I will not see you.”

“Gandalf once told me the plans of Eru are as expansive as they are unknowable,” he said after a long pause.

“Small comfort,” she fumed. “After all we have weathered, is our marriage not strong enough to span Eru’s design? And would you not want to see Fíli or Kíli again? Or Balin, or Oin, or Ori, or Dori, or Bifur, or Bombur, or the many others we have lost? Would you like to see Thorin again?”

Bilbo smiled briefly. “I fear if I saw Thorin, I would punch him in the jaw for the trouble he has caused!” He sighed. “We shouldn’t speak of such things. Hobbits are hardy folk, and even if I won’t live as long as you, I have decades in me yet.”

And so they let the matter lapse between them, even as each of them lay awake for many long hours thinking of it.

That spring, Bilbo received an urgent missive from Prim. Bearing the Ring had taken its toll on her and Drogo both, and trying to recover from that while raising their son had proved too much. Bilbo was delighted at the prospect of visiting the Shire, let alone meeting his new cousin, and he happily agreed to live with them for the summer. He and Dís kissed goodbye at the gates and Bilbo waved at her and their daughters until he vanished from sight.

Their son was born amidst the blossoming honeysuckles of early June, and Bilbo did not send the letters he had promised. The ravens returned from the Shire without finding him and Dís heard nothing of his whereabouts from Ered Luin. July was halfway gone when word finally arrived, in the form of a ranger who had ridden all the way from Rivendell.

Bilbo’s caravan had been ambushed in the Ettenmoors by a roving band of Orcs. The rangers and Bilbo’s escort had slain them, but Bilbo had already sustained a mortal wound. Not even the ministrations of Lord Elrond could save him.

All of this the Queen Under the Mountain heard, and long she sat in silence ere she spoke again as she turned the news of her freshest grief over in her mind. Within, she howled in pain — pain for herself, pain for Erebor, and pain for their children. Bilbo should have lived many more years, to see Thorin into adulthood or Frís join her guild. At the very least, he should have lived to see their son take his first steps.

Yet, she was not alone. She had family, for many of the company were yet alive and had children of their own. She had Dáin in the Iron Hills, and her daughters, who would become Queens Under the Mountain after her. She had the unspoken promise that Durin would one day retake Khazad-dûm and restore it to its former glory. And she had her people, the nearly fifteen thousand Dwarves who had placed their faith in her strength and leadership. Even after death, Bilbo kept finding ways to touch on her life, for it was because of him that she had all of this to live for.

This she thought as she looked down at their son, Bilbo, and stroked his downy hair.

It would be many more years before she rejoined her kin in death, but she would hold on to every second she had left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Saudade_ is a Portuguese word loosely described as the love that remains after someone is gone. It is the recollection of feelings, experiences, and events that once brought pleasure, but now serve as a melancholic reminder of what one has lost. It may also be described as the repressed knowledge that the object of one’s yearning will never return, or the sensation that something or someone essential is missing from one’s life. It is the bitterness of acknowledging something’s absence while simultaneously feeling happy that one had the opportunity to meet the person who had brought much pleasure to their life.


End file.
